


A Rendezvous with Death.

by steeleye



Series: It's Grim Up North. [12]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Horror, Time Travel, action adventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steeleye/pseuds/steeleye
Summary: A new ‘Grim Up North’ story; As Buffy adapts back to her old life after getting out of prison, an accident forces her to move in with Giles. Time travel and evil Nazi plots ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

A Rendezvous with Death.

By Steeleye.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I write these stories for fun not profit.

 **Crossover:** None, however several ideas were taken from ‘The Laundry’ series of books by Charles Stross.

 **Spelling, Punctuation, and Grammar:** Written in glorious UK-English which is different to US-English.

 **Timeline:** Another story in the ‘Grim Up North’ series set post Season 7 of BtVS.

 **Words:** Ten chapters of approximately 3000 words.

 **Warnings:** This story has Nazi’s in it, but they don’t crawl over your face.

 **Summary:** A new ‘Grim Up North’ story; As Buffy adapts back to her old life after getting out of prison, an accident forces her to move in with Giles. Time travel and evil Nazi plots ensue.

0=0=0=0

_I have a rendezvous with Death  
At some disputed barricade,  
When Spring comes back with rustling shade  
And apple-blossoms fill the air  
I have a rendezvous with Death  
When Spring brings back blue days and fair._

'I Have a Rendezvous With Death' is a poem by Alan Seehar.

**Slayer Central, Saltburn-by-the-Sea, April 2006.**

Walking across the dining area, Buffy pulled the hair net from her head and shook her head until her hair fell back into place. Ever since her release from prison, almost two months ago, she’d been getting up early and cooking breakfast for the staff and trainee slayers on the old holiday camp that was now ‘Slayer Central’. Doing this every morning without fail, she only went back to her more normal duties once the regular kitchen staff had arrived. Seeing Giles sitting at a table by a window reading his newspaper, she changed direction and walked over to join her old friend.

“Hi Giles,” Buffy sat down on a chair across the table from Giles and sipped from the big mug of strong tea that she held in her hand; she cast an admiring eye over her old teacher, “nice suit.”

“Morning Buffy,” Giles came out from behind his newspaper and looked down at himself, “do you really think so?”

“Oh yeah,” Buffy grinned as she nodded her head, “it’s so…” for a moment Buffy was lost for words, “…like, well tailored and expensive looking and so not tweed!”

“Thank-you,” Giles smiled as he folded his paper away, “I thought I’d try a different style, you know? So you think it suits?” Giles smiled again before adding, “If you pardon the pun.”

“Great improvement,” Buffy put down her mug, “you look really…y’know…hot.”

“Hot?” Giles frowned for a second before the penny dropped, “Oh-yes, I see,” he picked up his own more delicate cup of tea and sipped appreciatively. “So how do you feel this morning, still…” Giles gestured vaguely at Buffy’s cook’s whites, “…erm, still getting up early I see.”

“Yeah,” Buffy lifted her mug to her mouth to give herself time to think, “I think I’m getting over it, apart from the occasional urge to lock myself into my bedroom and pee in a bucket!” Buffy laughed at the shocked look on Giles’ face, “Hey, everyone told me that prison changes you, I’d totally never have guessed that it took so long to get back to normal.” Buffy sipped her tea, it being another habit she’d picked up in Slade prison, “You know some nights I still go to bed at eight o’clock, just how weird is that?”

“It’ll take time, Buffy,” Giles reached across the table and patted her hand, “but I’m sure you’ll get over it…have you slayed anything recently?”

“Not so much,” Buffy admitted, “took down a couple of vamps last week, but nothing really big, why?”

“I think you need to get out on patrol more,” Giles explained quietly, “I think you need to get back into your old routine. Start taking the trainees out again; perhaps get Willow to find you a mission to go on…stop getting up at the crack of dawn to cook everyone’s breakfasts.”

“But I like cooking breakfast,” Buffy explained, “I’m good at it and it gives me a chance to meet with the girls and,” Buffy smiled coyly, “it also gives me a chance to talk to you without people bursting into your office just as we’re…you know.”

“Well, yes I suppose you’re right,” Giles agreed; breakfasts at the canteen had improved dramatically since Buffy had taken over their preparation, “alright not the breakfasts but you should really do more slayer related work.”

Sitting there as she finished off her tea, Buffy thought about what Giles had said, maybe he was right. Perhaps she’d been clinging on to her old prison routines too much. In prison no one was relying on her, they expected her to screw up. Every day had been mapped out for her in advance; there was always someone to tell her what to do, from when to get up in the morning to when to go to bed. It had all been very comforting and she suspected she’d clung to her prison routine as a way of not accepting her responsibilities. It was time to get back to her old ways (without the drinking and upsetting her friends) start to be ‘The Slayer’ again.

“You know Giles,” Buffy smiled into Giles’ worried face, “I think you’re right. It’s time for me to get back on the vamp,” Buffy noticed Giles’ eyebrows start to climb towards his hairline, “in a purely slayage way. Time for me to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer again!”

“Oh jolly good,” Giles gave her a relieved smile, he’d been worried about his slayer since her release from prison, “and the breakfasts?”

“Oh I’m not giving that up,” Buffy laughed.

“Oh thank god for that,” Giles gave a heart felt sigh of relief, “the thought of going back to soggy fried bread and half cooked sausages was almost enough to make me start eating all that stuff people claim is good for you.”

“Right,” Buffy stood up, “I’m going to shower and change, then I’ll see you in your office in an hour?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Giles nodded his head glad to have his old Buffy back at long last, “I’ll look forward to it.”

0=0=0=0

Leaving the kitchen and canteen behind her Buffy walked through the camp towards the converted chalet where she lived. The Slayer Organisation had bought the old holiday camp when they’d all moved to England back in ‘03. They’d almost immediately got into financial difficulties after finding out that no one was willing to hand over access to the old council’s bank accounts and savings funds.

For a time things had looked grim, the organisation had got down to perhaps two months worth of money. Once that had run out, Buffy had resigned herself to going to work for the British subsidiary of ‘The Double Meat Palace’. However, relief had come from an unexpected quarter; Tony Scarpone, Kennedy’s rich and as they later discovered, Mafia Godfather, father, came to the rescue. He'd bought the entire site off Buffy for more than she’d paid for it. Next he’d leased a part of it back to her for a nominal rent, while flattening the rest of the camp and building a depot for his ‘Import-Export’ business. He had also helped out with lawyers and had soon got the old council’s funds handed over to the Slayer Organisation.

At times Buffy worried that Tony, as he insisted she call him, would start to ask for ‘favours’ in return for the help he’d given her and the slayers. But, so far he’d asked for nothing, in fact it had been incredibly useful knowing someone with ‘connections’ in the criminal underworld. The odd kidnapping here, the borrowing of a Jetstream private jet there; Buffy just pretended not to see and told herself it was all for the greater good. But one day, she knew, there would be a reckoning and on that day skeletons would jump from closets and bills would become due. Until that day arrived, however, she’d act as if nothing bad was happening.

0=0=0=0

Arriving at her chalet she pushed open her door, she never bothered to lock it these days. After she’d been put in prison (on totally trumped up burglary charges) Willow and Xander had done a major security upgrade on the camp. Before her departure to become one of Her Majesty’s guests, they’d sort of relied on the fact that it was a camp full of slayers to keep unwanted visitors away. The planting of evidence in Buffy’s chalet had proved this was the wrong approach. While Xander had organised the installation of CCTV’s and a new perimeter fence, Willow had cast magical wards to keep out or warn off the more magical intruders. Now the simple act of the wrong person opening the wrong door would cause alarms, magical and mundane, to ring and wake the dead (sometimes literally).

Taking off her cook’s dress, Buffy stood in the middle of her living room in just her underwear. Living alone she didn’t have to bother about how people saw her. For a while after coming out of prison she’d had an affair with Maggie McBride, one of the slayer instructors at the camp. Some time before she’d gone to prison every slayer in the world had been turned gay. They’d never found out who’d done it (although they'd all had their suspicions) or why they’d done it. All they’d known at the time was that it was a spell. It had taken Willow several months to work out the counter spell by which time Buffy had been in prison.

Not bothering to use the counter spell Buffy had remained ‘gay’ while she was in prison and had in fact had a relationship with a fellow inmate. When she’d been pardoned, she’d tried to recapture the excitement of her prison relationship with Maggie but it hadn’t worked out. Eventually it'd got so embarrassing that Maggie had left and rejoined the army and Buffy had completed the counter spell and turned herself hetro again. However, this hadn’t improved her love life, it still sucked and she was beginning to think about getting Willow to turn her gay again.

Dumping her cook’s dress on the floor by her washing machine, Buffy went into her bedroom. Laying out clean underwear, jeans, thermal vest and a pretty top she took off her underwear and headed towards her little bathroom. Shutting the door behind her she switched on the shower to let the water heat up while she quickly brushed her teeth. After rinsing out her mouth she stepped into the shower. It was as she was running the soap over her body that she noticed the strange gurgling sounds emanating from the ceiling.

Pausing in her ablutions, Buffy cocked her head to listen. The gurgling sound had been joined by an odd tapping noise that grew louder by the second. The water spat and faded away before picking up its usual pressure again. Very sensibly, Buffy rinsed the soap from her body, stepped out of the shower and wrapped her robe around herself. Just as she was thinking that now might be a good time to call Xander, there was a loud bang from above her head and the ceiling caved in. Plasterboard and water fell from above as Buffy screamed and jumped back out into her bedroom. Water continued to cascade into the shower, which quickly filled up (the drain having been blocked by fallen plasterboard) and overflowed onto the floor. By the time Buffy had found her mobile phone and called Xander the water was soaking into her bedroom carpet and more of the ceiling had fallen down.

0=0=0=0

Having followed Xander’s instructions on how to switch off the water, Buffy had got dressed and was waiting for Xander to arrive. The leak or whatever it was had brought down most of the ceiling in her bedroom. Water had soaked her bed and carpet, but it hadn’t got to her clothes in her closets and drawers. Standing with her arms crossed over her chest Buffy watched Xander inspect the damage.

“How bad is it?” she asked after he’d spent five minutes sucking his teeth and tutting; Buffy recognised these as the signs of a craftsman who was about to tell her just how big a bank loan she was going to need.

“It’s bad,” Xander admitted as he consulted the notes he’d made, “I’m no plumber but it looks like someone used the wrong type of pipe which split and,” he shrugged, “well, you can see what happened.”

“So,” Buffy sighed miserably, she’d grown to appreciate her little house since her release from prison and had worked hard to make it into a real ‘home’; now everything was spoilt, “how long will it take to repair?”

“Like I say Buff,” Xander gave a sympathetic smile, the news was bad, “I’m no plumber but we’ll need to clear everything out of here. Dry it out, replacing the ceiling will probably only take a couple of days. But I’ll want someone to check the pipes in the entire block before we repair them. It could take weeks…”

“What could take weeks?” Giles walked into the room and looked around, “Oh good grief!” He gasped as he saw the mess, “I heard there’d been an accident but this looks like a flood of biblical proportions!”

“Its not that bad,” Xander said from the other side of the room, “it’s just gonna take time to fix everything.”

“How long?” Buffy and Giles asked almost at the same time.

“Could be a couple of weeks,” Xander admitted, “depends what we find.”

“Find?” Giles prompted.

“The whole system could be shot,” Xander pointed out, “but I know a reliable guy who can fix it and the insurance should cover the money side of things.”

“Yes, well,” Giles walked over to Xander and peered up into the roof space, “that’s all very well but where’s Buffy going to stay in the meantime?”

“I could go and stay with Willow,” Buffy said brightly, “Oh!” her face fell, “Yeah, Kennedy…”

Although Kennedy and herself didn’t actually hate each other and did indeed share a few common problems, they weren’t and never would be bosom buddies (if you didn’t count the one night they’d spent having wild, lesbian, monkey-sex). The thought of spending a couple of weeks in the same house as Kennedy wasn’t Buffy’s idea of fun.

“What about Dawn and Faith,” Xander suggested, “they’ve got a spare bedroom.”

“Xander,” Buffy placed her hands on her hips as she turned to face him, “The idea of lying in bed at night while my little sister and Faith screw each others brains out, would totally give me the wig,” Buffy shook her head, “Do you know how thin those walls are?” she asked, “You can hear everything!”

“Yes I can imagine,” Giles could, but he tried not to.

“I suppose I could move into one of the guest chalets,” Buffy didn’t sound overjoyed at the prospect.

“No!” Giles said decisively after only a moment's thought, “You must come and stay with me I’ve got plenty of room.”

“Where?” Buffy demanded, as far as she could remember Giles lived in a chalet not unlike her own.

“My new house,” Giles informed her proudly, “its an easy five minute walk along the beach.”

“House?” Buffy looked from Giles to Xander and back again, “When did that happen?”

“When you were in prison,” Giles told her, “I got fed up of living on the camp and…” Giles blushed slightly, “…I was lonely without you around so I thought I’d have a change of scene.”

“You were lonely, so you moved out to live on your own?” Buffy gave Giles a crooked smile.

“Yes, I know it sounds odd,” Giles agreed, “but getting everything organised took my mind off things.”

“And, I may add,” Xander butted in, “padded my bank account nicely!” he grinned broadly at his two friends, “Now, if you don’t mind,” he stepped over the wreckage on the floor and headed for the door, “I better start getting things organised if you want to move back in here sometime before Christmas.”

“Thanks Xan,” Buffy walked over and kissed her friend on the cheek.”

“You do know that you’re not getting anything off the bill for that, don’t you?” Xander asked with a cheeky grin.

“Get outta here!” Buffy aimed a half-hearted slap at Xander’s arm.

“Ow!” Xander cried as he clutched at his arm were Buffy had hit him, “Okay!” he winced, “I’m going!”

“Thanks, Xander,” Buffy called as her friend hurried out of the room.

“So,” Giles looked hopefully at Buffy, “what do you say? Will you come and keep your old watcher company for a couple of weeks?”

Standing there in the ruin of her bedroom, Buffy weighed up her options. To be honest taking Giles up on his offer seemed the best alternative.

“Okay,” Buffy wondered what it would be like to spend a couple of weeks living under Giles’ roof, “why not?”

“Oh, jolly good,” Giles smiled, “you get packed up while I bring the car around.”

“You have a car too?” Buffy asked in surprise.

“Well, yes,” Giles gave her a puzzled look.

“When…?” Buffy left the rest of her question unsaid; she knew exactly when this had all happened; when she’d been in prison. “Erm, what else happened while I was away?” she wanted to know.

“Oh nothing much,” Giles claimed, “nothing earth shattering anyway.”

“You got married didn’t you?” Buffy accused.

“No I did not!” Giles replied fervently, “Now stop wasting time and get packed.”

Buffy watched as Giles hurried out of the room, he was hiding something, she always knew when he was. It’d be fun finding out what.

0=0=0=0

“Wow, Giles,” Buffy stood just inside Giles’ front door and gazed around the hall.

“I take-it it meets with your approval?” Giles asked as he dumped one of Buffy’s six suitcases by the coat-stand next to the door.

“I’m impressed,” Buffy admitted; from the outside Giles house looked like an ordinary, though admittedly large Victorian house, inside it was just the right mix of old and modern.

“Kennedy helped with the interior design,” Giles explained before going back out to his car and collecting another of Buffy’s suitcases, “she’s really very talented.”

“Yeah,” Buffy admitted grudgingly, “I saw what she was doing to Willow’s and her house before I went away.”

“You mean,” Giles was starting to get out of breath bringing in Buffy’s cases, “you’ve not seen it finished yet?”

“Here, let me help,” Buffy turned and ran to the car to pick up the two cases that contained her weapons, “no I’ve not been over yet.”

Taking the last case, Giles followed Buffy back into the house and shut the door behind him.

“Here,” he smiled, “we’ll put these in your room later, I’ll give you the fifty-pence tour.”

“Cool,” Buffy grinned, it was a long time since she’d seen her old watcher look so happy.

There was a large living room, a dinning room a down stairs bathroom and a study. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, a large bathroom and a flight of stairs leading into the loft.

“I’ve not decided what to do upstairs yet,” Giles explained as they looked around, “I was thinking of making it into an observatory or something.

Going back down stairs, Giles led Buffy into the kitchen intending to show her the back garden. He was halted in his tracks by her squeal of delight.

“Cooool!” Buffy cried happily her eyes wide as she looked around the kitchen, “All mod cons,” Buffy ran her fingers along the sparkling new kitchen appliances, “Gods you’ve got to let me cook you a meal or two in here!”

“Yes,” Giles laughed lightly, “Kennedy really went to town, every possible modern convenience…trouble is I hardly have the time to use any of it.” Opening the back door he showed Buffy into the garden, “It’s a bit overgrown but there’s plenty of room for barbecues in the summer and it looks out over the sea,” he pointed, “see?”

“You’ve really gone to town on this,” Buffy went to stand close to Giles as they looked out over the North Sea.

“Well actually,” Giles shrugged, “I just gave Kennedy a pile of cash and a vague idea of what I wanted and left her to it. I was sort of hoping we could use it as a sort of hideaway from the world of monsters and slaying.” Giles hesitated, “When I say ‘we’ I meant everyone, you know?”

“Yes!” Buffy replied happily, “That’s a brilliant idea, well done Giles!” Standing up on tip-toe she kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh I say!” Giles smiled down at her as his hand went to the place she’d kissed him.

“There is one thing,” Buffy gave Giles a serious look before walking over to the fence that separated the garden from the cliff that led down to the beach. “I was wondering where you got the money for all this,” she turned to give Giles an uncertain smile, “you’ve not been cooking the books while I’ve been away have you?”

“Oh no,” Giles laughed as he walked over to join Buffy, “I just had a bit of luck, that’s all.”

“Luck?” Buffy queried.

“Yes,” Giles nodded, “I had a rather handsome win on the National Lottery.”

“Just how handsome?” Buffy wanted to know.

“Oh very,” Giles neatly avoided the question, “now I think we should get back to the camp, I for one have things to do and you,” he placed his hand lightly on Buffy’s shoulder, “said something about a more hands on approach to the girl’s training.”

“I did indeed,” Buffy nodded as she let herself be guided back to the house, through the kitchen and into the hall.

While she was waiting for Giles to find her a set of keys, Buffy filled the time by looking at some framed photographs on the wall.

“Who’s this, Giles?” Buffy pointed to an old black and white photograph that showed a group of soldiers posing in front of a little tank-like vehicle.

“Oh that,” Giles stood next to Buffy and peered at the photo, “that’s my father and his men. It was taken near the end of World War Two in Germany.”

“Gotta say, Giles,” Buffy gave the photo a closer look, “you look a lot like your dad, like brothers almost.”

0=0=0=0


	2. Chapter 2

2.

**Giles’ House, Saltburn-by-the-Sea.**

Tossing and turning, Buffy eventually gave up trying to get to sleep and looked at her alarm clock which informed her that it was nearly one o’clock. Since her release from prison Buffy had been plagued with sleepless nights. The problem was that she’d grown used to having someone in the room with her at night. Her old cell-mate, Norma, had been like a mom, big sister and best friend all rolled into one and Buffy missed her, she especially missed hearing her snoring in the bunk above hers.

After finishing the tour of Giles’ house, Buffy and Giles had returned to Slayer Central; Giles got on with doing Giles-like things while Buffy joined in with a training session with the latest batch of trainee slayers. After a fun afternoon working out with the girls, Buffy had had her tea in the camp canteen and then gone on patrol with a couple of girls around the Cleveland Shopping Centre in Middlesbrough. After staking a couple of vamps and chasing off a demon that had been hiding in the underground car park they’d returned to Slayer Central.

Later that evening after walking along the cliff top path, Buffy reached Giles’ house just after ten o’clock. Letting herself in with the keys Giles had given her, she’d joined him for a light super before taking a shower and going to bed. As hard as she’d tried she couldn’t get to sleep, she’d hoped that the sound of the waves breaking against the shore would help her drift off but it hadn’t. Eventually she’d climbed out of bed, slipped her feet into her slippers and headed down stairs to the kitchen; she was hoping that a cup of hot coco might help her drift off. In the kitchen Buffy hunted through the cupboards for coco, finding a tin of chocolate powder she placed it on the working surface and went to the fridge for the milk. It was only then that she noticed light coming in under the back door.

“Odd,” Buffy halted her search for milk and went over to the back door and looked out into the garden through the window next to the door; sure enough the back garden was in total darkness. “Very odd,” she told herself just before opening the door.

After looking out into the garden, Buffy closed the door and leaned her back against it.

“Weird,” she murmured to herself; once again she checked through the window only to see the night shrouded garden, taking a deep breath she opened the door once again.

Looking out into the daylight, Buffy saw what appeared to be a grassy meadow that stretched away in front of her and past where the cliff edge should be. There was a tall hedge on her right and to her left the field rose gently to form a low hill. In the distance she could hear what she thought was thunder. Stepping out into the field/garden Buffy walked a few paces further into the meadow.

“This is one of those midnight garden, or in this case, field things isn’t it?” Buffy asked herself.

Half expecting to see lions, witches and wardrobes, Buffy turned around. What she really expected to see was Giles’ house; what she actually saw was more field. The house, Giles and everything else had vanished.

“This,” Buffy told herself quietly, “is not good, in fact,” she paused as she heard the thunder get louder, “I’d go so far as to say it’s really bad!”

0=0=0=0

**The Dutch-German Border; April 1945.**

Captain Peter Giles looked through his binoculars at the little German village that lay about a thousand yards to his front. It was typical of so many similar villages in north-west Germany just across the Dutch border. Steep tiled roofs; and red brick walls, shutters on the windows, neat little gardens and allotments backing onto the rear of many of the houses. A village market square, at present devoid of any movement, and apart from the white sheets hanging from windows in token of surrender, totally untouched by five years of war. That would all change very soon.

Putting down his binoculars, Peter turned to look at his men; there were nine of them including himself, and three Daimler armoured cars. Their official title was; Second Troop, ‘A’ Squadron, The Third Light Dragoons, a reconnaissance unit attached to Thirty Corps. Their real job was to hunt down and destroy the results of eight years of Nazi dabbling in the Black Arts. 

Today Giles had a forth vehicle attached to his unit; a jeep containing a Forward Observation Officer from 94th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery. The FOO, actually a Staff Sergeant, sat in the passenger seat of his jeep sharing a joke with his driver. Rain started to beat a gentle tattoo on the jeep’s canvas roof, Giles pulled up the collar of his tank-suit and pulled down the peek on his cap.

“Sar’nt Wotton,” he called; his second in command, Sergeant Wotton, ambled over and stood next to his officer. “What do you think Sar’nt?” Peter pointed, “Right village?” 

He offered the NCO his map. The sergeant took the map and studied it for a moment casting quick glances around at the flat countryside looking for land marks.

“Looks about right, Sir,” the sergeant handed Peter his map back, “does it really make any difference?” He asked. “They’re all Hun bastards, one village more or less, who’s going to notice if we take out the wrong one?”

“Quite,” Peter replied tersely. 

He understood his Sergeant’s point of view. A man, who’d had everything to live for back in ‘39, now had nothing thanks to Adolf and his boys; Peter understood it, but it didn’t mean he liked it.

“What’s that RA chap’s name again?” he asked, “And where’s Payne gone for that ruddy tea…India?”

“Milligan, Sir.” Wotton smiled as Trooper Payne appeared with a steaming mug of tea, which he placed on the mud guard of the Captain’s Daimler.

“Thank-you Payne,” Peter picked up the mug and tasted the tea, “Bloody awful as usual, make it with axle grease did you?”

“Of course Sir!” Payne grinned, “Just as you like it.” 

Payne handed out mugs of tea to the other members of the troop.

“Staff Milligan!” Captain Giles called after taking another mouthful of tea. 

The Royal Artillery NCO looked up from his conversation with his driver, jumped out of his jeep and made his way over to where the officer stood.

“How can I help you today, Sir?” the Staff Sergeant asked cheerfully, a hint of Ireland in his voice.

“See that village?” Peter pointed; it was a bit of a redundant question as there was very little else to see.

“Yes Sir, what about it?”

“I want it destroyed,” Peter announced flatly.

“Sir?” the NCO asked slightly puzzled.

“Destroyed, flattened, raised to the ground, removed from the map, that sort of thing. The kind of thing, which I’m told your chaps are really rather good at,” Peter explained.

“But, Sir, they’ve surrendered.” Milligan pointed out, he gestured to the village and its white flags.

“Typical shabby Nazi trick.” Peter informed the artilleryman briskly. “Five minutes with your entire regiment should be just the ticket.”

The RA man looked for support from the troop sergeant 

“Don’t look at me.” Wotton told the artilleryman, “Sooner that place is in flames the better as far as I’m concerned.”

Looking from the sergeant to the officer and back again, Milligan saw only hard eyed determination. Reluctantly he walked back to his jeep, he picked up his microphone and put on his headphones.

“What’s up Spike?” Asked his driver.

“Yon mad Englishman wants that village taken out,” he replied.

“But they’ve surrendered,” the driver pointed out reasonably.

“I did point that out,” Spike sighed heavily as he put his microphone to his mouth and started to speak.

“Hello golf one nine this is golf one nine delta…fire mission, over,” Milligan called over the radio.

“Golf one nine, fire mission, send over,” came the reply from RHQ.

“One nine delta, fire mission; target village grid 592773, neutralise for five minutes over."

The instructions were repeated back to him then there was silence for several minutes.

“Golf one nine delta, this is golf one nine, shot over.”

“One nine delta, shot, out,” Milligan replied regretfully.

Listening for a moment, Spike eventually heard the sound of a single shell pass over his position, it landed in the fields near the village, Spike sighed again as he noted the fall of shot.

“Golf one nine this is one nine delta; add one hundred, left one hundred…fire for effect.”

Within seconds the twenty-four, 25pdr guns of 94th Regiment Royal Artillery started to ‘neutralise’ the nameless little German village in front of him.

Watching as the village was destroyed; Spike cursed the officer who stood by so nonchalantly as the village was smashed to ruins.

“MURDERIN’ BASTARD!” Spike yelled over the sound of the guns, the officer glanced over at him unconcerned and carried on his conversation with his Troop Sergeant.

0=0=0=0

Sweeping his binoculars over the burning village, now that the shells had stopped landing Peter could just make out villagers trying to put out the fires, and rescue their neighbours. He was tempted to order a one minute repeat of the bombardment but decided against it, instead he climbed up into his armoured car.

“Mount up!” He called.

His men scrambled aboard their vehicles and within moments the car’s engines had rumbled into life; putting on his headsets Peter spoke into his microphone.

“Into the village; follow me!” Then to his driver he called, “Into the village Davies…fast as you like.”

His driver, Trooper Davies nodded his head and put his foot down, Giles grabbed for the K-Gun mounted on top of the turret to prevent himself from toppling out of the vehicle as they bounced across the fields towards the village.

0=0=0=0

**A Field in North West Germany, April 1945.**

It suddenly occurred to Buffy that her present outfit of stripy blue and white pyjama jacket, panties and slippers was not the best things to be wearing while tramping across unknown fields.

“It could have been worse,” Buffy told herself, “I might have been sleeping in the nude.”

The idea came into her mind that this could all be a dream; she could actually be in bed fast asleep and none of this was real. Pinching herself she didn’t wake up.

“Well,” Buffy sighed trying to find the glass half full, “at least it’s not raining.” 

Standing for a moment, she looked around the field, there was nothing useful here she told herself, like a three story Victorian house. Walking forward and over what should have been a cliff, Buffy tried to put some sort of plan together. First, clothes would be good; although the sky was clear (except for all those vapour trails up high) and the sun was out; it was still a little cold to be wandering around the country side in nothing but her panties and pyjama jacket. Her feet were already wet from the dew on the grass. After clothes came finding out where the hell she was and how to get home would also be a good idea.

“I have a plan,” Buffy smiled to herself as she started to walk along the hedge, “it may not be a great plan, but it’s a plan!” 

Glancing over to her right she saw a gate half dozen paces ahead of her, running up to it she climbed over and found herself on a country lane. Looking up and down the narrow road, Buffy saw a couple of figures walking towards her about three or four hundred yards away.

“People!” Buffy smiled, “I wonder if they’ll be helpful?”

0=0=0=0

**The Dutch-German Border, April 1945.**

As they drew near the village Peter called to Davies to slow down before making ‘slow down’ signals to his other two vehicles. Next he got behind his K-Gun, while calling to his gunner, Trooper Cooper, to prepare for action. Cocking his machine gun, Giles started to scan the smouldering ruins for signs of trouble.

The three armoured cars made their way slowly into the centre of the village, at their approached villagers scurried for cover, but Giles wasn’t worried about them. He was after much more dangerous game. The cars formed a triangle in the middle of the village square with their turrets pointing outwards. The houses round about had all been damaged in some way or other, a few were still on fire. Just when he’d begun to think that he’d been mistaken and destroyed the wrong village for no reason, something moved in the rubble; Giles swung his K-Gun to cover the movement. It could just be some civilians digging themselves out of the ruins, or it could be something else.

“Sir!” Called Corporal Jones from his car ‘Baby’.

Looking round Peter saw more movement in the rubble. He turned back to watch his front in time to see a man rise from the debris. The figure wore the remains of an SS uniform and clutched a rifle as if it was a club, his skin was a sickly shade of green, Peter guessed that the zombie had been dead for at least two weeks. He fired a short burst from his K-Gun into the approaching apparition. Several bullets caught the zombie in the chest; it staggered but didn’t fall. Behind him he could hear Wotton and Jones fire bursts from their machine guns at other targets.

Peter sighted the K-Gun on the first zombie as it was being joined by others that were dragging themselves from the ruins and advancing on the little group of British soldiers and vehicles. Pulling the trigger on his gun Peter sent a stream of .303 calibre bullets towards the first zombie. The K-Gun; capable of firing one thousand rounds a minute only pointed at its target for three seconds which meant that somewhere around one-hundred and fifty rounds were sent towards the target, maybe two thirds of them hit the zombie.

The zombie exploded into rotting lumps of putrid flesh as it was touched by the stream of hot lead; Peter turned his gun onto another zombie. This one was dressed in the uniform of a Luftwaffe nurse. The girl had obviously not been dead long and still looked reasonably human, holding an axe above her head she stumbled towards Peter’s car. He gave her a long burst and watched in satisfaction as the nurse zombie fell apart at the touch of the K-Gun’s bullets.

From behind him he could hear Wotton and Jones firing bursts into more zombies as they shambled towards the little group. Cooper opened fire with the car’s co-axial machine gun cutting down more zombies as Davies fired steady bursts of .45 calibre bullets from his Tommy-gun into the advancing living dead. Each round had its tip hollowed out so as to course the maximum amount of damage to the loathsome creatures.

Peter turned his gun onto a group of about half a dozen zombies that’d appeared from around a corner. These were the most decomposed zombies he’d seen so far. Several of them looked like little more that animated skeletons. He pulled the trigger on his K-Gun and let it’s fire play over the rotting corpses that strived to attack him. Body parts flew into the air as the machine gun bullets cut through the group. Just before the last zombie collapsed the K-Gun fell silent, its ammunition drum empty. The last zombie a hideous caricature of a German panzer officer reached the front of Peter’s Daimler only to be chopped to pieces by a long burst from Davies’s Tommy-gun.

“Well done Davies,” Peter changed the drum on his K-Gun while watching out for more targets; firing had stopped as the other two cars ran out of targets.

“I think we got ‘em all, Sir,” Wotton called from his car ‘Plymouth’.

Peter said nothing as he watched for any further movement. After a few minutes when nothing else appeared out of the rubble, he ordered his men to dismount.

“Alright Sergeant,” he called, “have the men collect the pieces and burn the remains; and for gods sake be careful! We don’t want a repeat of what happened to Dobbs.”

Trooper Dobbs had been Corporal Jones’ driver until about two weeks ago. While clearing out a nest of zombies in northern Holland. Dobbs had been bitten by a still active decapitated head. He had become infected and Giles had had to shoot the man in the back of the head and burn his body. Dobbs had been a good man, but a moment of carelessness had turned him into a ravening monster.

The men set about the gristly business of collecting up the bits of roughly butchered zombie using long handled shovels. They piled all the pieces and bodies into a mound in the middle of the square. The hands were the worst; they tried to crawl away or attacked the men as they collected them up. They often had to be shot with pistols or flattened with a well aimed shovel before they would stay in the pile with the other body parts.

After checking that nothing had been missed, Sergeant Wotton collected a jerry-can of petrol from the back of his car and emptied it over the body parts. As Wotton retreated to a safe distance, Peter took his flare pistol and fired it into the improvised funeral pyre and watched as it exploded into flame. Only after he was sure that no zombie parts had escaped the fire did he order his men to mount up and move on.

0=0=0=0


	3. Chapter 3

3.

**A country lane somewhere in North West Germany, April 1945.**

As Buffy got closer to the two figures, she saw they were both men, or at least one was a man the other didn’t look older than about fourteen or fifteen; they were both, however carrying rifles and wearing uniforms. Stopping about half a dozen yards short of the two ‘men’, Buffy eyed them uneasily. The man on the left was tall and thin, he also had to be well into his sixties. His uniform, being way too big for him hung on his body like a sack, while the helmet that was perched on his head looked like some sort of giant, grey zit.

The youth, by contrast, was short and fat; his uniform looked as if it was about to burst its seams as it strained to contain his body. His helmet, unlike his friend’s was far too big and appeared to be resting on his ears which stuck out from the side of his head. Every few seconds the youth would push the helmet up from where it’d slipped over his eyes which were at present riveted on Buffy’s legs.

“Hey!” Buffy called as the two walked slowly towards her, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

At the sound of her voice Old-tall-thin-guy took the rifle from where it had been hanging from his shoulder and pointed it a Buffy’s middle. When the youth didn’t follow suit, (he was still too busy starring at her legs) Old-tall-thin-guy nudged him and said something in a language that Buffy thought sounded like German, but she could be wrong, she was no expert as she admitted to herself.

“Okay guys,” Buffy took a step back and smiled nervously at the two gun wielding whatever-they-weres. “No need to get totally trigger happy here.”

There was something about these two jokers (apart from the pointing guns at her) that made Buffy feel very ill at ease. There was something about the shape of their helmets. A memory at the back of Buffy’s mind started to jump up and down while waving its arms in the air. It had something important to say and Buffy was ignoring it.

Old-tall-thin-guy said something like ‘Handy-hock’; from context and by the way he gestured with his rifle, Buffy guessed that he wanted her to put her hands up.

“You know this is no way to treat a guest to your beautiful country,” Buffy raised her hands above her head and in doing so caused her pyjama jacket to ride up exposing her panties to the overheated view of the youth; his eyes, already wide, grew even wider still.

At about this point, Buffy was thinking that the kitchen door had transported her to one of the more backward areas of eastern Europe and the two jokers pointing rifles at her were the local militia. However, her eye kept going back to those helmets, her memory had by now stopped jumping about and waving and was whistling noisily in an attempt to get Buffy to notice it. Eventually Buffy’s mind’s eye fell on the memory and she took a moment to examine it.

To a woman whose life was full of strange things, including portals that took people to different dimensions. The realisation that Giles’ back door had somehow transported her to Nazi Germany didn’t come as much of a surprise; she was, however, going to have a long serious talk to Giles about his back door. Another thought sprung to the forefront of her mind after she’d finish looking at her memory of a picture from a history book. Doors to and from kitchens were beginning to be a problem, odd things tended to happen to her when she passed thought them; a girl could get a complex about them if she wasn’t careful.

By the time all these things had gone through her mind the two Germans, for that was what Buffy guessed they must be, had closed the gap between them and were within easy hitting distance. Old-tall-thin-guy was jabbering at her in what she assumed was German, whatever it was she didn’t understand a word. The youth, held his rifle loosely in his hands and was starring at Buffy panties and not even pretending that he wasn’t. This close up, Buffy could study their uniforms in detail; she saw the eagle and swastika badges and the armbands that had ‘Volksturm’ printed on them.

“Hey look,” Buffy was starting to get annoyed with the constant starring and rifle jabbing, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told Old-thin-tall-guy before looking at the youth and yelling at him, “STOP STARING!”

Her shout caused the youth to look up just in time to see Buffy snatch the rifle from his hands. Using the rifle as a club she hit Old-tall-thin-guy across the jaw with it. Unfortunately he must have moved at the last moment because although he dropped his rifle as he fell to the ground, he wasn’t unconscious as Buffy had intended. As Old-tall-thin-guy sat on the road surface clutching his jaw, the youth (stung into action by Buffy taking away his rifle) yelled and charged at Buffy catching her around the middle and forcing her back a couple of steps.

Beginning to think that the rule about not killing humans was just a little too strict, Buffy drove her elbow into the back of the boy’s neck. For an instant his body went rigid as he registered the pain, half a second later the youth had collapsed to the ground and lay there groaning. By this time Old-tall-thin-guy had got back to his feet and had pulled a long knife-like weapon from a sheath on his belt. He said something that didn’t sound too complimentary and cautiously started to advance on her. He started to laugh at the sound of vehicles coming up behind her. Glancing over her shoulder Buffy saw three little tank-like vehicles come to a halt a few yards behind her; they appeared to be packed with more heavily armed soldiers.

0=0=0=0

**Another country lane somewhere in North West Germany, a little earlier.**

“Sir?” Trooper Cooper asked as they bowled along in ‘Edna’ deeper into Germany.

Glancing up from his map, Peter looked at his gunner; he was sitting in the commander’s seat next to Cooper leaving the K-gun to swing unattended on its mount.

“What is it Cooper?” 

“Well sir, I was wondering,” Cooper said slowly, “how come we’ve not seen any of those castle things wot the vampires like to live in?”

“Good question Cooper,” Peter said giving himself time to think, “The simple answer is, that the ones I think you’re thinking about are all in the south.”

“So we won’t meet any vampires up here then, sir?” Cooper added hopefully.

“Oh there’ll be a few no doubt, but most of ‘em will be down in Bavaria I expect,” Peter replied.

Cooper appeared to think about this for a minute or two; Peter looked out of the turret at the fields and trees; the nature of the countryside was starting to change here abouts. The flat fields of the Dutch-German border were giving way to wooded hills. The roads were getting narrower and now tended to have thick hedges on either side. Plus the weather was starting to improve. The morning had dawned bright and clear, if it got any warmer, thought Peter, he’d have to take off his tank-suit.

“So the Americans will have to deal with the buggers then,” Cooper announced after much thought.

“Sorry?” Peter replied having let his mind wander.

“Vampires, in the south, sir,” Cooper pointed vaguely south, “that’s the American sector isn’t it sir?”

“Yes,” Peter nodded his head slowly.

“Well then they’ll have to sort out the vampires down there, sir,” Cooper nodded his head sagely, “never liked vampires,” Cooper informed his officer, Peter smiled indulgently, “Nasty brutes they are, turning into bats an’ such, serves the Americans right, sir, that’s what I say!”

“I’m sorry Cooper I don’t follow,” Peter turned a puzzled face towards his gunner.

“Teach ‘em to be late for two world wars in a row sir,” Cooper explained with a certain amount of malicious joy, “if they don’t want to have to deal with the really nasty stuff, they should arrive on time.”

“Quite,” Peter replied before slowly turning back to his map.

“Watch out sir!” Cooper pointed and drew his officer’s attention to the road ahead.

About half a mile away, Peter saw a column of German infantry marching along the road as if they were on a Sunday stroll. Estimating their number at about three or four hundred, Peter imagined the column was an understrength battalion.

“Foot down Davies!” Peter ordered as he scrambled up behind the K-Gun, “We’ll take them on the wing!”

Hanging on for dear life as Davies’ lead foot mashed down on the accelerator, Peter turned and made ‘speed-up’ signals at Sergeant Wotton who passed on the message to Corporal Jones in the rear car. Peter cocked the K-Gun and looked up to see the German infantry no more than a couple of hundred yards away. The bounders were getting off the road to let him and his troop pass. It was obvious to Peter that the Germans had no idea where the British forces were or that the armoured cars heading towards them at high speed were in fact the enemy. Holding his fire until he was nearly level with the front of the column, he held the trigger down as Cooper let rip with the co-ax and Davies steered the car along the column.

Infantrymen were scythed down like wheat as ‘Edna’ sped down the column. Some soldiers realised their mistake and tried to fight back; others tried to make their escape across the fields. Those that ran fell victim to the fire coming from ‘Plymouth’ and ‘Baby’. Bullets clanged against the armoured sides of ‘Edna’ or cracked over Peter’s head as the Germans fired wildly at their attackers. Within only a few seconds the cars had broken though to the end of the column. Corporal Jones, being the last car in the troop, traversed his turret and fired over his rear decks to discourage any thoughts of pursuit. It was fairly needless, as the German unit had been reduced to a bloody shambles by their attackers. Peter let go of his machine-gun and picked up his microphone.

“Hello Romeo one nine, this is Romeo one two, contact over.”

Waiting for an acknowledgement, Peter sent in his ‘Contact Report’ to Regimental HQ giving them the time and location of the action and his estimate of enemy casualties. After receiving a response he told RHQ that he was moving on to the next village. The three cars stopped on a slight rise where the crews could look back at the Germans without the risk of being shot at. Tiny figures still ran about the fields or tried to bring aid to their injured comrades, while officers attempted to sort out the bloody shambles.

“Oh for a three inch mortar,” Sergeant Wotton called as his car pulled up alongside that of his officer’s, he looked back at the struggling Germans.

“You won’t be happy until every last German’s dead will you Sergeant?” Peter asked.

“No sir,” Wotton replied, “I can’t say that I will.”

“Well Sergeant,” Peter smiled, “if we kill them all now, who will we fight in another twenty or twenty-five years?”

“I’m sure we’ll find someone sir,” the troop sergeant replied.

“I dare say you’re right” Peter agreed after a moment's thought; he pointed to his map. “We’ll keep going down this road and see what we can see in…” Peter hesitated for a moment as he tried to pronounce the name of the next town on the map, “Erm, ‘Were-lite’?” 

“Right you are sir,” Wotton nodded his head, “like me to lead for a bit?”

“That’s dashed decent of you Sergeant Wotton,” Peter grinned, “after you then.”

0=0=0=0

Leading the troop even further into Germany, Sergeant Wotton smiled at the memory of all the dead Germans they’d left behind. Before the war Wotton had never really thought much about Germans one way or another. Of course he could just remember the Great War when he’d been a very small boy and he’s learnt about it from relatives and men that he’d worked with and who’d fought in the trenches. From what he’d been told the German soldiers had been no better and no worse than anyone else; after all weren’t they just fighting for their country?

What had made everything so personal for him was what had happened while he’d been in training up in Yorkshire. It was during the Blitz and the Germans had bombed Plymouth, his home town. Instead of hitting the Royal Navy dockyards they’d hit the long lines of terraced houses that were the homes of the civilian dock workers. In one night Wotton’s entire extended family was wiped out and he’d been filled with the need for vengeance. When he’d been approached by the Council of Watchers and he’d seen the evidence of what the Germans had really been doing since 1933. His need for vengeance turned into a great righteous anger that would not be stilled until Germany and its people were crushed into the dust of history.

Driving along at a steady thirty miles an hour, Wotton scanned the surrounding fields on the look out for German troops that still wanted to make a fight of it. Even this thought made him angry; this just showed how bestial the Germans were. Anyone could see that they were beaten. The Russians where fighting their way into Berlin; British and American forces could roam at will over western Germany. Allied aircraft filled the sky and yet the Germans wouldn’t give up. Good riddance to them, Wotton spat over the side of the turret, the longer they fought on the more of them that would die and the less there’d be to cause trouble in the future. Movement over to Wotton’s left caught his eye.

“Slow down Painful!” Wotton called down to his driver, he tapped Lance Corporal Telford, his gunner, on the shoulder, “looks like trouble, Max.”

The Daimler slowed down as Wotton put his binoculars to his eyes. Through the hedgerows and across the fields he could just make out a flash of white material, it looked like someone was standing behind a hedge just a little way ahead.

“Traverse left, Max, onto that lane, you see it?” Wotton told his gunner.

Less than a hundred yards ahead a lane joined the road the troop was on, Wotton guessed that there was a German standing up that road no doubt waiting with a Panzerfaust ready to die for the fatherland.

“Payne,” Wotton called over the sound of the motor, “advance dead slow until we get level with the lane, got that?”

“Got it, Sarge,” Payne started to drive forward at a steady five miles an hour.

When they got level with the end of the lane, Wotton could see what was really going on.

“HARD LEFT, PAINFUL!” Wotton yelled and the car swung into the lane, “FOOT DOWN!”

The car sped up the lane towards the struggling figures ahead of them. Recognising the stripy shirt the girl was wearing, Wotton reached for his pistol. Captain Giles had shown him the pictures of the German concentration camps and told him a little about what the council had discovered was going on in them. They’d both decided it was probably best not to tell the other men. He’d seen the pictures of the walking skeletons in their blue and white stripped pyjama-like prison suits.

It was obvious what had happened here. A female prisoner had escaped from one of these death camps, but had been cornered by these two fine pieces of Germanic manhood. No doubt they were trying to rape the girl before handing her back to the prison authorities. They’d got her trousers off but she was fighting back. The girl was short, blonde and thin and there were two of these vile Hun beasts.

“DRIVER HALT!” The car slid to a halt as Wotton climbed out of the turret.

In a couple of steps he’d jumped from the mud guard of the car and was striding across the road. Lifting his revolver he aimed and fired at the Hun who was threatening the girl with his bayonet. Giving a startled shout, the Hun with the bayonet turned from the force of the .455 bullet hitting him before slumping to the ground. Wotton’s eyes sort out the other Hun who was lying on the road. The plucky, little, blonde girl must have hit him with something.

Noticing how fat the Hun was as he struggled to his feet, Wotton sneered as he aimed at the would be rapist. The Hun had managed to get to his feet and was just starting to turn to run when Wotton shot him dead before he’d even taken half a step.

0=0=0=0

“Aagh!” Buffy screamed at the sound of the gunshot; she’d watched the angry man jump from his little tank and raise his pistol, somehow she’d not really expected him to fire.

Old-tall-thin-guy cried out as the bullet hit him, he’d dropped his knife and fallen to the ground dead. The youth, with a look of panicked terror on his face, scrambled to his feet only to be shot before he could even start to run. Watching wide eyed at the coldly efficient way these two men were dispatched, Buffy became aware of more little tanks pulling to a halt behind the first and more armed men dismounting from the vehicles and coming towards her.

“What’s going on here, Sergeant Wotton?” The voice of the man in the cap sounded all too familiar to Buffy’s ears.

“These two Huns,” Wotton gestured with his still drawn revolver to the bodies lying on the road, “were trying to rape this young woman Sir, I shot them.”

“Jolly good, Sergeant,” Peter walked up to Buffy and looked down at her, “Are you alright, Miss?” Without waiting for an answer he turned and called to a couple of men who were still sitting in the their vehicle, “Cooper, see if you can find her something warm to wear she’s probably in shock…and someone put the tea on!”

Standing there surrounded by men with guns, Buffy was having a hard time processing everything. All the new men were wearing light brown, one piece suits and dark coloured berets. All except for the man who was talking to her, he wore a cap with a brass badge on the front. Not that what everybody and especially the man in the cap were wearing was important to her right now.

“Giles?” Buffy knew this couldn’t be ‘her’ Giles, this Giles was several years younger than ‘her’ Giles but it was definitely him.

“I say, you speak English!” Peter took a step back from the young woman, “Have we met?”

“Umm,” Buffy was at a loss as to what to say, but she needed to say something, “sort of.”

The need to say something else was postponed when someone put a heavy coat around her shoulders, it was massive and reached down to her ankles.

“There you are Miss,” said a voice behind her, “that’ll keep you warm. We’ve still got Dobb’s old kit, sir, ‘e was a short arse you never know it might fit ‘er.”

“Good idea, Cooper,” Peter nodded, “go find it would you?”

“I know what’s going on here,” all the pieces started to fall together in Buffy’s mind.

The weird uniforms, the little tanks, the going around just shooting people, the photograph on Giles’ hall wall, all the pieces were starting to fall into place. Somehow she’d been transported to the end of World War Two, gazing up into Peter’ eyes, Buffy smiled with relief.

“I know who you are,” Buffy announced slowly.

“You do?” Peter didn’t take his glasses off to polish them because he didn’t wear any, but Buffy thought that he should.

“You’re Rupert’s father!”

0=0=0=0


	4. Chapter 4

4.

“I can assure you Miss,” Peter replied slightly surprised, not only by the girl’s accent but also by what she was claiming, “I’m not anybody’s ‘father’.”

“No!” Buffy smiled nervously, “Of course you’re not, how could you be Rupert’s father you’re way too young.” Buffy hesitated before adding, “I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

“Are you feeling alright,” Peter placed a supportive hand on Buffy’s arm; his eyes were full of concern and pity, “You’re American aren’t you?”

Buffy nodded her head as thoughts raced through her mind. What was she supposed to do or say? What could she tell these people, why hadn’t any one thought up some guidelines for time travellers, why did these things always happen to her?

“Erm, yeah,” Buffy nodded as she threaded her arms through the overcoat she’d been given; the coat seemed to envelope her entire body but it was warm and reassuringly heavy.

“Well if you tell us your name I’ll radio my HQ and they’ll contact the American authorities and they’ll have you home in no time,” Peter assured her.

“Yeah,” Buffy accepted the mug of tea handed to her by one of the soldiers, “about that,” she sipped the tea, it was strong and sweet just like the tea in Slade prison, “I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?” Peter frowned into his own mug of tea as he brought it to his lips, “I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Buffy sipped contemplatively at her tea, the English had been right all along, tea helped you think or at least gave you time to think.

What should she tell this guy? What could she tell him? Once again Buffy wished someone had given her some idea as to what to do in these types of situations. Looking Giles’ father in the eye she came to her decision. Her Giles was a good guy so, she reasoned, he must have got that from somewhere…like his father. A dark thought crossed her mind, she couldn’t actually remember him saying much about his father. In fact when she’d spotted the photograph on the wall ‘her’ Giles seemed reluctant to talk about it much. Sighing softly, Buffy wrapped her hands around the warm tin mug and felt the sensation return to her chilled fingers.

“Do you mind if we talk in private?” Buffy glanced over to where the soldiers were doing soldier-like things on and around their little tanks.

“Of course,” Peter lead Buffy slightly further along the lane; he thought she probably needed to tell him what had happened to her and was too ashamed or embarrassed to talk where his men might over hear.

“You’re name is Giles, right?” Buffy began, “I’m sorry I can’t read your rank things or whatever…”

“Captain Peter Giles, at your service, Miss?”

Pausing for a moment, Buffy smiled this guy was so like ‘her’ Giles; when he said he was ‘at her service’ he sounded like he really meant it.

“Whatever,” Buffy continued as she dragged her mind back to the problem at hand, “look I’m guessing you work for the Watchers Council in London, am I right?”

“What!” Peter was so surprised he nearly dropped his mug of tea, “How…?”

“Look,” Buffy glanced around to see the guy who’d shot the Germans watching them suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. “My name’s Buffy Summers,” she whispered, “a-k-a Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

“The Slayer!?” Peter didn’t even bother trying to deny everything, “How…but the slayer’s in…oh my god is she dead?”

“Don’t know,” Buffy shook her head, “my visit here wasn’t planned so I wasn’t given any background information, but you believe me I’m the slayer, right?”

“Well,” Peter shrugged his shoulders, “I’ll have to call London to confirm your identity but…”

“Again I’d rather you didn’t,” Buffy tried an innocent smile with a side order of pleading.

“Why?” Peter frowned as he moved his hand slowly towards his pistol.

“Well here’s the big one,” Buffy noticed Peter’s hand start to move and realised she’d have to make this good, “Right I’m Buffy, I’m the slayer and…I was born in Los Angeles in nineteen-eighty-one!”

“Oh come on, what sort of fool do you take me Miss Summers?” Peter took a step away from Buffy and drew his pistol, “If that’s really your name, perhaps I should call you Fräulein Sommer?”

Turning at the ominous sound of metal on metal, Buffy glanced around to see several of the soldier-boys pointing guns at her.

“Oh darn,” Buffy cried, “look I am the slayer, see…?” Buffy drank the last inch or so of tea and then crushed her tin mug into a small metal ball between her hands.

“Alright,” Peter admitted, “so you’re the slayer.” Buffy noticed how everyone took a couple of more paces away from her and held onto their weapons more tightly. “So if you’re from the future like you say, you can tell us when the war’s going to end.”

“Hey!” Buffy wailed, “Big secret here do you have to tell everyone?”

“Don’t worry, Fräulein Sommer,” Peter informed her, “we all work for the council here.”

“Oh!” Buffy looked around at all the grim faces and guns, “You do? Wow!”

“Now, Fräulein Sommer,” Peter repeated, “tell us something to back up your story or I’m afraid I’ll have to shoot you right here.”

“SHOOT ME!?” Buffy cried in alarm as she stepped back and started to calculate how fast she could jump over the hedge behind her.

“Yes,” Peter brought his pistol up and pointed it at her head.

“Oh, darn it,” Buffy moaned, “I wish I’d paid more attention in history.” Looking around at all these grim faced men Buffy wondered if it wouldn’t be best to just start running now, deciding to try one last attempt at dissuading them from shooting her, she tried to explain.

“Look guys,” Buffy turned to face the men with there guns, “I was never very good at history and its been a while since I was at school…”

“She could be telling the truth, Sir,” Sergeant Wotton called, “I mean how much do you remember about your history lessons at school?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Peter admitted as he glanced at his troop sergeant, “you have a point, but,” he turned to look at Buffy once more, “we still need some sort of proof that she’d at least an American.”

“I can sing the Star Spangled Banner’!” Buffy supplied helpfully.

“Well I don’t know if…” Peter started to say just before he was drowned out by Buffy’s voice.

 _“Oh, say can’t you seeeee,_ ” Buffy’s voice wobbled on the high note and everyone around her winced and took a sharp intake of breath. _“By the dawn’s early light, what so proudly,”_ Again Buffy’s voice cracked and one or two of Peter’ men groaned and moved their hands to cover their ears. _“we hailed la-la la-la’s last la-la?”_

It was at about this point that Buffy realised she couldn’t sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ after all and ground slowly to a halt.

“I say we should believe her, Sir,” suggested one of the soldiers with a grin.

“Yes, Sir,” called another, “as long as she promises not to sing again.”

“The men are right, Sir,” Sergeant Wotton lowered his Tommy Gun, “not even the Huns would send a spy over who’s that badly prepared.”

“Oh,” Peter lowered his revolver, “I suppose you’re right,” he shrugged, “I never felt right about shooting pretty, young women anyway,” he glanced at Buffy, “alright, Miss Summers you can come with us. But,” he gave Buffy a hard look that made her blood run cold, “one step out of place and I _will_ shoot you.”

0=0=0=0

The battered, cracked, sign said Werlte; Peter shrugged at his earlier mispronunciation. Werlte had been bigger than the village they’d destroyed earlier in the day. It would appear, however, that Werlte had suffered from a fairly extreme case of ‘Over Bombing’ in the not too distant past. Perhaps someone had mistaken the town for some bigger more important target, or perhaps the air force had just dropped their unused bombs on the first town that they’d flown over. Peter had once heard from an American bomber pilot, that he’d shared a few drinks with, that squadrons would just bomb any old town if they couldn’t find their primary target. The pilot had explained, rather drunkenly, that as everyone had spent the last forty-five years either; preparing for a war with the Germans, or actually at war with the Germans, or recovering from a war with the Germans. He and his ‘buddies’ were going to make ‘darn’ sure that this was the last time the Germans went to war with anyone! 

Sniffing Peter smelt the odour of burning wood and burning bodies. He looked over at Buffy who was sitting beside him dressed in Dobbs’ old uniform. The look on her face convinced him more than any words ever could that she was who she claimed to be. No one who’d lived through the last five years could look so shocked and horrified at the destruction all around them.

Smoke rolled across the rumble strewn streets as the troop made there way into the ruined town. Here and there Peter could see civilians scurry about in the rubble trying to save what they could from the destruction wrought upon them. For a moment Peter felt sorry for these people, having their lives and homes destroyed, but the feeling only lasted a moment or two. He remembered all those town cemeteries he’d seen in Belgium. In the corner of each graveyard would be a section where the headstones displayed the occupants name, age and the simple legend; Shot by the Germans, 1914-18. No doubt very shortly another crop of headstones would spring up bearing the words; ‘Shot by the Germans, 1939-45’.

‘Edna’ crunched her way under Davies’ guidance into the remains of the town square. Here, untouched by the bombing stood two military trucks with office bodies and large red crosses on their sides. They must have arrived shortly after the bombing had stopped. To one side lay neat rows of dead bodies, both military and civilian.

Reading the tactical symbols on the sides of the trucks, Peter recognised them for what they were; an SS Reanimation Unit. Obviously the council’s intelligence was wrong; the Reanimation Unit wasn’t heading towards Bremen as they’d been told. It was here in front of him and it looked as if it had been eliminated.

“Sergeant Wotton!” Peter called as he grabbed his Tommy-gun and a few spare magazines before jumping down from his vehicle, “With me!” He looked back at Buffy as she started to climb down from the car, “You’d better stay here, Miss Summers.”

“Why?” Buffy asked as she jumped down onto the cobbled street, “Slayer, remember? You might need my help.”

Thinking about it for a moment Peter nodded his head, if she was indeed the slayer she could be of use to him.

“Alright then, you can come along, but,” Peter gave her one of those serious looks that she’d seen Giles give her so very often over the years, “you stay close to me and do as I tell you. Remember,” he warned, “there’s lots on angry Germans around with guns and they’ll shoot you dead as easily as anyone else, understand?”

Having been shot before and not being eager to repeat the experience, Buffy nodded her head. Sergeant Wotton came over from his car carrying his Tommy Gun to join Buffy and Peter. Together the three of them advanced cautiously towards the trucks while men still in the cars covered them with machine guns. Creeping up to the rear of one of the trucks where a short flight of steps led up to a door, Peter opened the door while Sergeant Wotton covered him with his Tommy-gun. Standing to one side out of the way of every body Buffy felt the tension in the air but nothing else.

“Hey, guys,” Buffy whispered, both men turned to look at her, “I can’t feel anything of the bad in there, it’s like totally safe.”

The door swung open to reveal a small laboratory. Light streamed in from sky-lights while taking centre stage was a metal operating table, this was surrounded by stands holding drips and operating lights. The walls of the office were fitted with cupboards and folding working surfaces. Everything was covered in blood.

“Odd.” Peter peered inside, apparently ignoring all the blood.

Climbing up the stairs Buffy tried to look around Peter but was jostled out the way as Sergeant Wotton came to join his officer.

“Hey!” Buffy complained but no one was paying her much attention.

“Not you’re usual set up,” Wotton pointed out.

Normally ‘Reanimation’ involved injecting the corpse with the reanimation formula and a bit of chanting to bind the zombie to do the Shaman’s biding. This was something new, Peter stepped inside to get a better view.

“Well I think I’ve found the owners,” he called over his shoulder; two bodies lay in contorted heaps in opposite corners of the lab, they both wore the remains of SS doctor’s uniforms.

“Looks like whatever they were working on objected,” Buffy pushed her way between the two men and into the lab, “It must have been wicked strong and fast, look,” she pointed, “they didn’t even have time to pull their guns out.”

“I thought I told you to stay back?” Peter examined the broken restraints on the operating table.

“Wonder what they caught?” Buffy asked ignoring what Peter had just said, “Hey, maybe the caught a demon in human form, then tried to turn it into one of these zombie things thinking it was just another corpse and it totally woke up?”

“As good a theory as any, Sir,” Wotton agreed with Buffy, “But what the hell were they doing? You don’t need all this stuff,” he indicated the drips and equipment that hung from the ceiling, “just to raise zombies, Sir.”

“Bit of a poser,” Peter nodded his head; he bent to pick up some papers that had been scattered across the floor.

“You read German?” Buffy asked; Peter nodded in the affirmative, “Cool.”

“Looks like the usual army bumf,” Peter gave a disappointed sigh, “Requests for rations and petrol that sort of thing,” suddenly Peter let out a short bark of laughter, “Oh, and more forms!”

The two men shared a smile, while Buffy wondered what was so funny. It seemed that even at the point of defeat the Third Reich still demanded that the correct forms be filled out.

“Get Jones in here with his camera,” Peter ordered, “we’ll take samples of anything interesting and collect any paperwork.” He held up the forms in his hand, “It’ll, give the sods back in London something to do. Let’s see what’s in the other truck.”

0=0=0=0

Climbing down from the lab truck, Buffy, Peter and Sergeant Wotton headed over to the other vehicle. From the outside it looked the twin of the first, Peter stepped up to the rear door and tried the door handle.

“Hold on!” Buffy called urgently, Peter turned to look at her, “There’s something in this one, something I don’t think you want running around.”

Peter tried the door handle, “Locked,” he called back to Buffy and Wotton.

Stepping down from the door he drew his pistol, before Buffy could stop him he put two rounds into the door lock. Right at that very moment the door disintegrated into splinters that flew like shrapnel towards the three demon hunters. Reacting with inhuman speed, Buffy was able to save herself from the worst of the wooden shards and was only hit by a couple of the smaller pieces of wood. Unfortunately, Peter and Wotton hadn’t been so lucky, they lay on the cobbled street stunned at the very least.

There was a hideous roar from the doorway and Buffy dragged her eyes away from the injured men to see a demon of some kind standing in the ruined door way of the truck. Leaping forward she grabbed hold of one of the demon's ankles and pulled. With a high pitched squeal of alarm the demon bounced down the stairs on its butt to end up sitting at Buffy’s feet.

Raising her leg, Buffy stamped down with her foot hoping to crush the monster’s windpipe and stop the fight before it had properly begun. Unfortunately she was still wearing her bedroom slippers; she’d tried on the army boots that she’d been given with the rest of the uniform she was now wearing, but like everything else they were way too big so she’d stayed with her slippers; she was now regretting her choice.

Although hurt and stunned the demon wasn’t beaten, it lashed out with one clawed hand at Buffy’s legs. Luckily she saw the attack coming and jumped over the wild swipe. As she landed she carried on going down until she was in a position to grab the demon by the ears. Pulling it to its feet she aimed a kick at its crutch.

“OWWWW!” Buffy cried in pain, it felt like she’d just kicked a concrete wall.

Not letting go of the demon’s ears she started to drag in over to a ruined wall, the demon tried to pull away put Buffy changed her hold on the creature and wrapped her arms around its neck and twisted. Ignoring the pain as the demon tried to claw at her she kept on twisting until she heard its neck snap. Letting go of the demon, Buffy turned and watched it fall to the ground.

“Ow,” Buffy moaned as she turned to examine the three parallel slashes in the back of her trousers.

The demon’s claws had just cut her skin, it was nothing serious she’d been saved by her too big uniform which had confused the demon to where Buffy actually was inside the mass of tough khaki material. Just as she was about to congratulate herself on a good slay, Buffy stepped back her eyes wide with confusion as the demon climbed back to its feet.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” Buffy gasped as she readied herself to continue the fight.

The demon staggered around, more than a little unsteady on its feet, as its head lolled bonelessly on its shoulders. It started to take a step towards her only to be blown off its feet by a loud and sustained burst of firing.

0=0=0=0


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Firing from their positions on the ground, Peter and Sergeant Wotton kept shooting until their magazines ran dry. In the silence after the hammering the Tommy-guns had given their ears, they could just hear the ragged breathing of the wounded beast lying beside the truck.

“Shall I touch ‘im up with the K-gun sir?” Corporal Jones called as he covered the demon from his car.

“Don’t waste ammunition,” Peter turned to look at Wotton, “let’s make sure this thing’s dead shall we?”

Watching from the ground where she still lay, Buffy saw Peter pull what she suspected was a grenade from the map pocket of his trousers before cautiously advancing on the creature. He turned towards her for a moment and signalled her to get back. Obeying, Buffy crawled across the cobbles towards safety. Removing the pin Peter stuffed the grenade between the demon’s jaws before running for his life. There was a sharp *BANG!* as the grenade exploded. The demon’s head and upper body disintegrated as the grenade blew it apart.

“You all right, Miss?” one of the soldiers asked as he helped Buffy to her feet.

“Yeah, sure,” Buffy climbed to her feet her eyes riveted to what remained of the demon, “wow!” she breathed as she dusted down her trouser legs.

“I’ll get you a first aid kit, Miss,” the soldier told her before adding, “and a needle and tread.”

“What?” Buffy suddenly remembered that the demon had scratched her, “Oh yeah thanks.”

“Well, Miss Summers,” Peter walked slowly over to where Buffy stood, he swapped his empty magazine for a full one, “that proves conclusively you were telling the truth about being the slayer.”

When Buffy didn’t answer him, he looked at her closely to check that she was in fact uninjured other than for the scratches on her legs.

“Miss Summers,” he called quietly.

“Sorry?” Buffy dragged her eyes away from the blown up demon; she couldn’t help thinking that had Giles let her use grenades her life could have been so much easier. “What?”

“You’re alright?” Peter gestured to the scratches in her leg.

“Oh yeah I’m fine,” Buffy turned to reassure him, “I just need to clean up is all.”

“Yes,” Peter nodded, “of course. As I was saying,” Peter became very business-like and British all of a sudden, “Why don’t you go with Trooper Payne and sort yourself out, while I deal with things here, alright?”

“Yeah thanks,” Buffy still looked down to where the half demon lay, “you know, that was way cool.”

“Way cool?” Peter queried raising an eyebrow.

“Christ,” Buffy sighed, “you sound worse than G…” she managed to stop herself from saying more and corrected herself, “my watcher.”

“Jolly good,” Peter smiled, “once I’ve finished here I think we need a little chat, Miss Summers.”

“Sure,” Buffy replied with a shrug, “and please call me Buffy.”

“Would you mind awfully if I didn’t?” Peter asked; before Buffy could say anything, he'd turned away and was starting to get his troop organised.

“Miss?”

Turning Buffy saw the soldier who’d spoken to her earlier, “Why does everyone diss my name?” she asked him as he lead her over to one of the little tanks.

0=0=0=0

“Corporal Jones!” Peter called, “Get your camera and document this.” He pointed to the bodies and the trucks, “McBride, you give him a hand and don’t forget to pick up all the documents you can find.” Peter turned to look at his own vehicle, “Davies, Cooper you keep an eye on things from Edna, the rest of you get on and check the vehicles.” Peter and Wotton walked slowly over to where the bodies lay, “And Payne,” he glanced at his watch, “Once you’ve finished helping Miss Summers get some food on!”

Looking down at the rows of bodies, Peter did a quick count there had to be at least sixty of them. They represented all ages and both sexes and none of them looked too badly damaged from the bombing; he guessed that they must have been killed by blast more than shrapnel.

“Serve the Fatherland even after death,” Wotton commented quietly from beside him.

“Nice chaps these Nazi fellows.” Peter pointed out, “How could they do this to their own people? Makes you wonder about the stories you hear about those camps of theirs.”

“They’re all murderin’ bastard’s sir.” Wotton observed earnestly, “Not a shred of decency among the lot of ‘em.”

“Come on Sergeant Wotton,” Giles placated, “You can’t condemn a whole nation for the acts of a few fanatics.”

“Can’t I sir?” Wotton looked over at his officer, “You just watch me.”

“Yes quite.” Peter sighed before walking away and leaving his sergeant to his dreams of revenge.

0=0=0=0

“Well, Miss Summers,” Peter sat down on a salvaged chair next to where Buffy was sewing up the rents in her trousers, “feel like having that little chat?”

“Sure,” Buffy nodded as she worked on the rips in her pants; a year ago before going to prison she’d have been lost if you’d given her a needle and thread. “I expect you’ve got a lot to ask me,” her quick nimble fingers wielded the needle and thread efficiently and soon closed up the slashes in her trousers. “But,” Buffy looked up to watch Peter for a moment, “there’s stuff I don’t think I should tell you because it might change the future.”

“What’s to say you haven’t changed the future just by being here?” Peter asked softly, “those two Volksturm might have lived out the war had it not been for your arrival. For that matter I might have been killed by that demon if it hadn’t been for your timely intervention.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, “and if you think about this stuff too hard you’ll go totally insane,” she laughed as she tied off the thread, “I expect you want to know how I got here.”

“That would have been my first question,” Peter agreed.

“So not, an exciting story,” Buffy paused as she cut the thread with her teeth, “I was stopping over at…” once again Buffy had to stop herself from saying Giles’ name, “at…at my watcher’s house. I couldn’t sleep so I went down stairs to make a drink. I saw light coming in under the back door.” Buffy shrugged her shoulders resignedly, “I opened the door and *POOF!* I was standing in a field more than fifty years ago and so not in…” again Buffy stopped herself from saying too much.

“Poof?” Peter quieried.

“Something like that,” Buffy nodded, she moved the greatcoat that she’d draped over her legs while she checked on the scratches the demon had given her.

They were a little red but they were already healing up nicely; she noticed how Peter turned his head and pretended to look out over the ruined little town, so he wouldn’t appear to be staring at her legs. Standing up Buffy quickly put on her trousers before sitting down once more.

“So,” Peter glanced quickly at Buffy, seeing she was fully clothed again he turned to watch her intently, “I believe you said you were born in Los Angeles?”

“Correct,” Buffy nodded her head, “Socal girl, that’s me.”

“Sorry I don’t understand the reference,” Peter frowned.

“Southern California girl,” Buffy explained, “we’re totally supposed to be blonde air-heads, y’know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Peter frowned again, “I understand the individual words but the way you put them together is hard to follow.”

“No problemo,” Buffy smiled, “I’ll pretend that you’re my watcher and try to talk like a grown up.”

Buffy could quite easily pretend that Peter was her watcher, he was the spitting image of ‘her’ Giles and so much younger and ‘hotter’!

“Thank-you,” Peter nodded, “can I ask were you were living before your…” Peter paused as he chose his words carefully, “…little misadventure.”

Sighing wistfully, Buffy thought how nice it was to hear a Giles type understatement.

“Best I’m gonna tell you is, northern England,” Buffy pointed out.

“Ah!” Peter held up his finger just like her Giles did when he’d thought of something, “That’ll be the Middlesbrough Hellmouth, am I correct?”

“You know it?” Buffy asked.

“Certainly,” Peter agreed, “only in the here and now its dormant.”

“Oh!” Buffy thought quickly, it might be an idea to bring this question and answer session to a halt before she said too much, “Look, I’m sorry, I really don’t know that I should say anymore until I’ve had a chance to think, okay?”

“Oh don’t worry, Miss Summers,” Peter smiled reassuringly, “I’d decided that you were on the up and up some time ago.”

“Was I that convincing?” Buffy wanted to know.

“No,” Peter shook his head, “quite the contrary in fact.”

“Huh?” Buffy watched him wide eyed.

“You see anyone wanting to fool me would have had a perfectly logical and well rehearsed story to tell me,” Peter smiled as he sat back in his chair. “Your mixture of confusion and unwillingness to say anything about the future is, to my mind at least, more believable.”

“Oh thanks,” Buffy frowned, “I think...”

“Now,” Peter laughed, “is there anything you want to ask me, I’ll try to answer your questions, but like you I’ll have to watch what I say.”

“Okay,” Buffy said slowly as she shifted on the up turned crate she was using as a chair, “you can tell me what’s going on here?” Buffy hesitated before completing what she had to say. “Like, I totally know about World War Two an’all, but…” once again Buffy stopped herself from using Giles’ name, “…but-but my watcher never told me anything about you guys.”

Watching Buffy, Peter noted that that had been the third or fourth time she’d stopped herself from calling her watcher by name. Obviously her watcher must be someone she though he might know or would know sometime in the future. However, her question had told him one thing that even in the future watchers didn’t know everything that had gone on during this war.

“You see, Miss Summers,” Peter began in that lecturing voice that Buffy knew so well it almost made her feel homesick for the library at Sunnydale High, “the Nazi’s have been dabbling in the dark arts from just after they’d been voted into power back in ‘33.” Peter paused to collect his thoughts, “However, it wasn’t until 1935 that things started to look serious,” Peter explained; Buffy noticed the grim look that crossed his handsome features. “In September of that year the last known German slayer and her watcher had been killed on a mission down in Bavaria. Shortly afterwards the Nazi’s let it be know that the Council of Watchers were no longer welcome in the Reich. After this the situation went from bad to worse.”

“In 1936 rumours had started to circulate that various members of the Nazi hierarchy were performing Dark Magics to increase their own power and affect national and international policies,” Peter continued. “Hitler then ordered a purge of these factions of the party and the investigation of Dark Magics was handed over to Heinrich Himmler and his SS goons.”

Taking a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, Peter offered one to Buffy, when she refused he took one himself and lit it with a lighter just like the one Faith carried.

“It wasn’t until after the D-Day landings,” Peter informed her, “that the Council fully realised how far the Nazi’s had gone. As the Allied Armies swept across France units discovered evidence of what the Germans had been doing,” Peter drew deeply on his cigarette causing the tip to glow brightly in the failing light. “As a result the Council and the War Office formed several specialist Army and Royal Marine units to deal with the Netherworld threat on the battlefield. The United States Army also formed several small units to deal with the threat in their area of operations. The Americans refer to their units as the Human Resources Initiative; we just hide our special units within their parent units.”

“The Initiative?” Buffy had no idea that the Initiative’s history stretched so far back.

“You’ve heard of them I expect?” Peter asked.

“Yeah,” Buffy nodded, “I’ve worked with them,” she paused wondering if she should say anymore, “it didn’t end well.”

“One of those things you don’t think you should tell me?” Peter wanted to know.

“Probably best if I kept my mouth shut on the subject,” Buffy explained, “there were issues.”

Once again Peter didn’t fully understand what Buffy meant by ‘issues’, but from the look on her face things must have gone pretty badly, he decided to get on with his little history lesson.

“Now we’re moving steadily east following the retreating Germans. We’ve found the threat from these, so-called zombie ‘stay behind’ parties is increasing.” He paused as he crushed out his cigarette under his boot, “And of course there’s the Werewolf units to look out for.” 

“Werewolf units!?” Buffy gasped

“Grub-up, Sir, Miss,” Trooper Payne appeared next to Buffy and Peter and handed each of them a mess tin, Peter looked into his suspiciously.

“Fresh vegetables again Payne?” He muttered.

“Sorry, sir,” Payne shrugged, “best I could do.”

Looking into her own mess tin Buffy frowned, it was indeed full of fresh potatoes and greens plus some sort of meat stew. Sniffing at it, she risked a mouthful; it wasn’t half bad, well up to her own standards. Settling down with her spoon and mess tin Buffy tucked into her meal only realising as she did so how hungry she was.

“I’d have thought,” Buffy said between mouthfuls, “that you’d be pleased to get fresh vegetables in wartime.”

“Oh I am,” Peter ate his meal more slowly as he watched Buffy demolish hers.

“But…” Buffy’s spoon paused half way to her mouth for a second, but only for a second.

“Oh you mean what I said to Painful,” Peter laughed, “it’s a sort of running joke you see.” Peter confided to her, “Payne is a very good cook and if anyone ever actually found out, some general, or worse yet, the Catering Corps would grab him.”

“Oh I see,” Buffy was busily chasing the last few pieces of potato around her mess tin, “so you all pretend he’s a terrible cook?”

“That’s it,” Peter nodded, “the worse the insult about his cooking the more it means we appreciate it.”

Putting the mess tin on the ground next to her foot, Buffy drank the mug of tea Payne had left for her. Once she’d finished she started to look around the ruined square, eventually she turned to Peter who was now enjoying a completive cigarette with his own tea.

“Excuse me,” Buffy began slightly embarrassed, “but where’s the restroom?”

“Restroom?” Peter frowned.

“You know,” Buffy whispered, “the ‘facilities’?”

“Sorry?” Peter looked puzzled for a moment before the penny dropped, “Oh yes, sorry…I’m afraid you’ll have to go behind a wall or something. Normally I’d caution you to be careful but as you’re the slayer I won’t bother.”

Standing up, Buffy looked around at the ruins.

“There’s paper in Edna’s turret,” Peter called out after her as she made her way towards a lightly spot, “and you might want to take a shovel with you.”

Not sure why she might need a shovel, Buffy changed direction and walked over to Edna, Peter’s little tank.

“Christ!” Buffy muttered to herself, “Things must be bad; you don’t even get a bucket here.”

0=0=0=0

Flying at about two thousand feet above Germany, Flight ‘Lef-tenant’ Charles Kenworth was thinking that it might be time to head for his airfield back in Belgium. The light was beginning to go and he had no wish to try and land his aircraft in the dark. Banking his Typhoon fighter-bomber over onto one wing he looked down at the German village below him. Bomber Command and the Yanks had really given it a pasting, he watched as smoke rose from a few fires in amongst the smouldering ruins.

After scanning the skies he levelled out and reversed his bank, as he did so movement on the ground caught his eye. There on the road leading out of the village and deeper into Germany was a small convoy of four or five German military vehicles. At least he suspected they were German, he decided to go down and take a closer look. He calculated that he still had time before the light failed completely. He pushed his aircraft’s nose into a shallow dive and zoomed towards the vehicles as they sped along the road.

A lazy line of tracer reached up towards him from the rear vehicle in the group, the rounds suddenly whipping past his head as they got closer. He pulled up the nose of the fighter and opened the throttle. Levelling off at about a thousand feet he brought his aircraft round in a tight turn and lined himself up on the road and the convoy. His suspicions had been confirmed, the vehicles were German.

The vehicles seemed to speed up as he dived towards them, Kenworth smiled to himself, there wouldn’t be any escape for them today. He pulled the trigger on his control stick and the entire aircraft seemed to judder and shake as its four 20mm cannon tore up the road around the convoy. First one then another vehicle burst into flames and careered off the road and into the ditch. The remaining trucks tried to take evasive action as Kenworth brought his Typhoon around for another pass. Again the cannon ripped up the road and the earth around his target and another truck exploded into flame.

0=0=0=0


	6. Chapter 6

6.

**A road near Werlte.**

Climbing out of his Kubelwagan, Standartenführer Konig listened as the sound of the Tommy fighter bomber receded into the distance. Stepping out onto the road from the cover of the wood where his surviving vehicles had taken refuge he looked back along the road. He cursed quietly as he saw the burning wrecks of his other trucks lying on or next to the road. Turning he sort out Oberscharfuhrer Huber who was walking around the one surviving truck checking for damage.

“Oberscharfuhrer,” Konig called as he turned away from the road and walked toward the truck, “any damage?”

“No, Herr Standartenführer,” Huber called back as he finished his inspection, “we were lucky this time, sir, not a scratch.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Oberscharfuhrer” Konig told the senior NCO, “it is our destiny to succeed!”

“Of course Herr Standartenführer,” Huber agreed.

“Map,” Konig demanded and waited for Huber to climb into the cab of his truck and retrieve his map; taking the map from the Oberscharfuhrer, Konig spread it out on the bonnet of the truck. “Here,” he said pointing to a location about five kilometres south of Werlte, “there is a work-camp located here that should serve our requirements.” Konig looked up at Huber and smiled, “Remember nothing else matters, Oberscharfuhrer, the fate of the Fatherland rests in our hands, and we must succeed whatever the cost!”

0=0=0=0

**Werlte.**

Returning from her expedition into the ruins, Buffy noticed that everyone appeared to be packing up as if preparing to leave; she’d sort of got the impression that they were spending the night in the ruins of the little town.

“What’s going on?” Buffy asked as she walked up behind Peter who was busy packing away equipment.

“We’re leaving, Miss Summers,” he told her as he worked.

“Where’re we going?” Buffy felt a little like a fifth wheel, everyone else seemed so busy.

“Lance Corporal Telford found us somewhere better to spend the night,” Peter informed her with a grin.

Looking around at the ruins, Buffy breathed a quiet sigh of relief, she’d not been looking forward to spending the night in the town with its smell of death.

“So,” Buffy smiled eagerly, “where are we going?”

“Not far,” Peter started to climb up onto his little tank, “you better hop up if you don’t want to be left behind!”

Climbing aboard the armoured car, Buffy made herself as comfortable as she could sitting on the open hatch of the turret. Warning Buffy to ‘hold on tight’, Peter signalled for the little convoy to pull out. Looking back along the line of the road she saw that there was only one little tank following them, she pointed this out to Peter.

“Don’t worry,” Peter called over the sound of the motor, “Sergeant Wotton has gone ahead to keep an eye on the place.

Nodding her head in understanding, Buffy looked up at the sky. The light was definitely beginning to fail. Although the sky was still light blue the countryside around her was beginning to disappear into shadow as the eastern sky got darker.

“We often do something like this,” Peter told her.

“Sorry?” Buffy asked as she dragged her mind back from its contemplation of the dusk.

“Look,” Peter didn’t need to shout as the armoured car’s engine was surprisingly quiet, “by now every Hun within five miles knows we were parked up in the square back there.”

Buffy nodded her head; that sounded like a reasonable assumption. 

“So at about last light we change location,” Peter explained, “throws the blighters off our scent as it were. Anyway, L/Cpl Telford has found us a nice farmhouse to spend the night in.”

The journey didn’t take long, they quickly moved out of the ruins of Werlte and back out into the countryside. Breathing once again the fresh scents of grass and spring flowers, Buffy yawned hugely as she realised just how long it had been since she’d actually slept. Okay, slayers didn’t need as much sleep as ordinary people, she’d proved that to herself though out her high school career, but they still needed to sleep.

Very soon, Buffy’s sharp, night adapted eyes picked out the shape of Sergeant Wotton’s little tank half hidden in a hedge on the side of the road. The remaining two armoured cars drove up to Wotton’s vehicle and turned off the road into a farmyard and then into a large barn. Once Wotton’s vehicle had joined them the big wooden doors were closed and everyone climbed down from the vehicles and got busy. Once again, Buffy felt superfluous amidst the organised chaos as the soldiers moved things from the armoured cars and into the big old farm house. Eventually, Peter came over to her and taking her by the arm led her into the main building. 

The big kitchen, where everyone appeared to be congregating, was warm and snug, a fire burnt merrily in the grate and the flames reflected off the plates still on display in the dresser opposite the fire place; Payne already had water on the stove for a cup of tea. Buffy wondered as she was gently sidelined into a chair in the corner of the room, what would happen if the British army ever ran out of tea. It seemed to be more important to them than petrol was.

Very soon, Buffy found a big mug of hot, strong, sweet tea thrust into her hand along with some biscuits made out of oatmeal. The biscuits defeated even slayer teeth until one of Peter’s soldiers explained that you had to dunk them in your tea before trying to eat them. Once this had been explained to her, Buffy found the biscuits quite pleasant and she sat back in her chair and watched as everyone prepared to get settled down for the night.

0=0=0=0

Opening the door to the bedroom, Peter saw that Sergeant Wotton had already set up the long range radio and the batteries to power it. It was a type that was issued to spies and saboteurs who’d been dropped into Europe through out the war by such organisations as the Special Operations Executive. This radio allowed Peter to talk directly to the Council headquarters in London as well as his own Regimental Headquarters.

Taking his note book from his breast pocket, Peter flipped it open and studied his notes by the light of the storm lantern that had been placed next to the radio. He’d already decided not to mention Miss Summers’ mysterious appearance. He knew the Council well enough that the news of the sudden appearance of a slayer from the future would cause no end of trouble. They’d want her in London for a start, once there who knew what they’d do to the poor girl. Since about 1942 the old fashioned, rather genteel atmosphere of the old Council of Watchers had been replaced by a new hard edged ‘the end justifies the means’ approach.

It was not outside the realms of possibility that if Miss Summers was sent back to London something unpleasant would happen to her. Some members of the council would be quite capable of torturing Miss Summers for information and Peter wasn’t about to let that happen. The young American slayer seemed to be a pleasant enough young woman, brave if a little scatter brained and deserved to be sent home to her watcher if he could find a way of doing that. Failing that she should be given the respect due to a slayer and not spend her last hours on a dissecting table in one of the Council's 'interview' rooms.

Composing the message in his mind, Peter picked up the Morse key and placed it next to the radio. For a moment he listened to the droning of RAF bombers as they headed for Berlin or Hamburg or any one of half a hundred German cities. 

“Good riddance,” he muttered quietly as he started to tap out his message.

0=0=0=0

“What’s that noise?” Buffy asked looking up at the ceiling as if she could see through it and out into the night sky.

“Bombers, Miss,” Sergeant Wotton informed her as he sat down in a chair next to hers.

“Bombers?” Buffy asked as the sound of aircraft engines made the glass in the windows vibrate.

“Off to flatten another Hun city,” Wotton explained quietly, he offered Buffy a cigarette before lighting one himself; Buffy had noticed that just about everyone smoked.

“You really don’t like the Germans, do you?” Buffy though about what she’d said and thought that it sounded a little foolish considering there was a war on, “I mean you _really_ ,” she stressed the word, “don’t like the Germans.”

“No, Miss I don’t,” Wotton admitted, “they destroyed everything and everyone I loved, I can’t forgive them for that.”

“But those bombers,” Buffy gestured to the ceiling, “you say they’re going to bomb some city, won’t your side be doing exactly the same thing to them as they’ve done to you?”

“As they sowed the wind,” Wotton quoted Air Marshal 'Bomber' Harris, “so shall they reap the whirlwind…and may I point out that my side, as you put it, is also your side.”

Before Buffy could come back with an answer, Peter reappeared from wherever he’d disappeared to. Buffy was left sitting by herself as Wotton got up, walked over to Peter and the two men had a whispered conversation. After a couple of minutes Wotton turned to the other soldiers who’d all been pretending not to try to listen in on what was being said and called the room to order.

“Listen up!” Sergeant Wotton called, “‘O’ Group.”

“Thank-you Sergeant Wotton,” Peter looked around at his men who where seated around the room drinking their tea and smoking cigarettes, “I’ve just got off the ‘Dread Machine’ to London,” There were a few smiles at Peter’s description of the unit’s long-range wireless set, “and I have our new orders.”

There were groans from the men.

“Right then,” Peter continued, ignoring the men’s groans, “Harry Hun continues to withdraw eastwards leaving rearguards to slow us down. Corps expects them to make a stand somewhere west of Bremen, possibly at Cloppenburg; 43rd ‘Wessex’ Division are advancing up route two-thirteen and are expected to reach Cloppenburg in about a week or ten days.”

Peter paused for a moment before reading the next part of the message.

“Any suggestion that the Boche are about to give up or aren’t fighting as hard as they could be is totally false.” Peter warned. “Although some German units are surrendering, these are mainly second and third line units. The SS and army seem determined to draw out this whole miserable business for as long as possible; so don’t let your guard down.”

“Now then,” Peter flipped over a page of his notebook, “Our official orders are as follows. We are still attached to the 43rd Division. Our job will be to scout along a route parallel to that taken by the main body of the Division and report on and bypass any bodies of Hun troops.”

“Our real orders are to check out a work camp a few miles south of here, the Council believes that the Waffen SS have a Reanimation unit based there and are going to use the inmates and turn them into zombies, they want us to eliminate it. Quiet simple really, any questions?”

For a moment there was silence and then Trooper McBride raised his hand.

“Yes McBride?” Peter nodded to the man.

“Sir, you did mention to the council that there’s a bleedin’ lot of angry Germans between us and this camp?” McBride asked.

“Rest assured McBride,” Peter replied with an easy grin, “I did point this out. The Council replied that they had every confidence in our ability to destroy or bypass any German resistance.” Peter nodded knowingly. “On a more practical note the Council has arranged for us to have priority call on artillery and air support. Anyone else?”

Sergeant Wotton raised his hand.

“Replacements Sir?”

This question was of importance to everybody in the troop, which was why Wotton had mentioned it in front of the men. Second troop were three men and one car down on its regulation strength. This meant that men had to work harder to keep the vehicles running, and do more guard duties. It also meant that when you got into a sticky situation there might not be anyone around to back you up.

“I’m sorry no,” Peter sighed sadly, “as you know the manpower situation is critical for the entire army, plus there are the special requirements for recruits to our unit. So, I don’t think we’re going to be back up to strength in the foreseeable future.”

There were groans and mutterings from the men but nothing more, everybody would do their job the best they could. The truth was that Britain had run out of men of fighting age, Peter had seen the figures; it all went back to the losses of the Great War. Even with women taking over as many jobs as possible from men there were still not enough young healthy men to go round. As the government insisted on keeping the Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force stronger than they really needed to be at this stage of the war, the Army was continually understrength. There really was no accounting for the logic of politicians.

“Any more questions?” Peter wanted to know.

There were no more questions.

“Good. I suggest everyone gets a good night’s sleep we’ve got an early start in the morning…Sergeant Wotton if you’d join me in the front parlour?”

“Sir.” Replied Wotton with a nod.

0=0=0=0

“Well, George what do you think of our new mission?” Peter asked when he and Wotton were in the front parlour by themselves.

“Usual ballocks by the sounds of it,” Replied Wotton, “Do you really think we’ll find these SS bastards sir?”

“No,” Peter shook his head, “I expect they’ll be well on their way to Hamburg or somewhere by the time we find this place.”

“So why are we doing it then?” Wotton asked.

“Who says we are?” Peter asked quietly.

“Sir?”

“Who’s to say we don’t get held up or lost?” Peter suggested quietly, “Certainly not those Council sods back in their bunker in London.”

“But sir we can’t just not do anything,” Wotton pointed out.

“Oh we’ll do something,” Peter explained, “we’ll obey our orders that’s what we’ll do. Look George, the war’s going to be over in a month, or six weeks,” he pointed out. “I don’t want to risk anybody’s lives pointlessly. If I really thought we could catch these so-and-so’s I’d be all for it. But I don’t think we can plus there’s Miss Summers’ safety to consider.”

“You won’t get any argument from me, but…?” Wotton left his objection hanging.  
“But?” Peter eyed his troop sergeant warily; Wotton was a stickler for duty, he also hated the Germans with a passion.

“Well, Sir,” Wotton began as he offered Peter a cigarette, “as I understand it slayers don’t just turn up out of the blue for no good reason.”

“Hmm,” Peter drew in a lung full of tobacco smoke, “are you suggesting that Miss Summers’ sudden appearance may have been pre-ordained?”

“Could be, Sir,” Wotton knew that once he’d planted the seed of doubt in his Troop Leader’s mind he wouldn’t be able to let it rest.

“Are you suggesting that Miss Summers’ arrival was more than an accident and her presence here has something to do with what might be going on at this camp?” Peter mused.

“Something like that, Sir,” Wotton agreed.

“Bugger,” Peter sighed tiredly, “so my idea of bumbling along on the flank of 43rd Div is out the window?”

“That's about it, Sir,” Wotton nodded.

“Dash it all, George,” Peter moaned, “where are these blighters going to run to? If they go east the Russians shoot them. If they go south us or the Yanks get them. If they go north they'll get trapped between us and the sea. It’s not as if they can get to South America or somewhere!”

“I know Sir,” Wotton agreed, “and I’ve no wish to get shot on the last day of the war, but we’d kick ourselves if the Huns managed to open a Hellmouth or something.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Peter crushed out his cigarette, “better get the men bedded down, we’ll try and find this camp place first thing in the morning.”

“And Miss Summers?” Wotton finished his cigarette and threw the dog-end out of the window.

“Oh she better come with us,” Peter observed with a grin, “somehow it completely slipped my mind to tell the Council she was here.”

“Very good, Sir,” Wotton agreed, “its probably for the best.”

0=0=0=0

“There you are Miss,” L/Cpl Telford pushed the door open and ushered Buffy into the bedroom, he however stayed firmly on the threshold. “There’s hot water and soap the beddings dry and clean and we put the blackout up for you too.”

“Thank-you,” Buffy smiled as she tried to suppress a yawn, “you’ve all been so kind to me.”

“Think nothing of it Miss,” Telford blushed slightly, “its not everyday you get to meet an actual slayer.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Buffy slumped onto the bed and yawned hugely.

“Well, in that case I’ll say goodnight, Miss,” Telford pulled the door closed leaving Buffy alone in the cosy little room.

As she took off her borrowed uniform and washed herself in the warm water the soldier had left her, Buffy never actually spared a thought as to what might have happened to the room’s previous occupant.

0=0=0=0

The much reduced convoy reached the camp at about ten o’clock that night. Bursting into the Commandant’s office Konig had found the man, a Hauptsturmfuhrer called Richter feeding documents into the stove in the corner of this office.

“What’s going on here!” Konig demanded.

The other officer turned, saw the rank badges on Konig’s collar and snapped to attention.

“I was ordered to burn all records, lock the inmates in their barracks and withdraw east, Herr Standartenfuhrer,” Richter explained hurriedly.

“Those orders are now rescinded,” Konig snapped as he held out a copy of his own orders, “here is my authorisation.”

Examining the document, Richter took the time to study the Standartenfuhrer. He saw a short chubby man in a uniform that looked just a little too tight for him, however his orders appeared to be in order.

“What can I do for you, Herr Standartenfuhrer?” Richter asked.

Having spent most of the war organising and running camps, Richter had no wish to go east and face the Soviet juggernaut. Much preferring to stay were he was and surrender to the British or Americans or perhaps fade into the mass of refugees and lost soldiers wandering the roads, Richter was interested to see what this soft looking Standartenfuhrer wanted.

0=0=0=0


	7. Chapter 7

7.

**Werlte Lager.**

Walking along the ranks of inmates, in the early morning light, Standartenführer Konig tried not to breath through his nose, the women lined up for his inspection stank.

“How many prisoners do you have here?” Konig demanded.

“Four-hundred-and-seventy-nine, Herr Standartenführer,” Richter replied before pointing out, “thirty-three died last night.”

“What was the work done here?” Konig wanted to know.

“Cutting lumber for use as pit-props, Sir,” Richter noted Konig’s use of the past tense.

Coming to a halt, Konig turned to face Richter.

“Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter,” Konig began in a hushed tone of voice, “I will require fifty women, preferably ones that still actually look like women, not these,” Konig waved his hand at the walking skeletons in their stripped prison suits, “useless husks.”

“May I enquire what the Standartenführer, wants with them?” Richter asked suspiciously; there were strict regulations about racial purity.

If he could arrest the Standartenführer on charges of sexual perversion, Richter could lock the nasty little man up and leave him for the Amies or Tommy’s to deal with while he disappeared. He had no great wish to get mixed up in whatever Konig had planned.

“No you may not,” Konig replied slowly, “but I will tell you this, the fate of the Fatherland may well rest on what we do here today.”

“Of course, Herr Standartenführer,” Richter snapped to attention, obviously Konig was one of the worst types of fanatic who couldn’t see that all was lost and the time had come to disappear.

“So,” Konig started to walk away from the inmates and their stench, “select fifty of the healthiest inmates, have them cleaned up and ready to move in,” he glanced at his wrist watch, “say, an hour. Do you have transport?”

“Only my personal Kubelwagen, Herr Standartenführer,” Richter replied as he walked along beside Konig.

“Damn-it!” Konig snapped and came to a sudden halt, he turned to face Richter again, “I’ll want you and ten of your most trusted men to guard the prisoners once you’ve selected them.”

“What should I do with the others?” Richter wanted to know, “The prisoners I mean.”

“What were you going to do with them?” Konig demanded.

“Lock them in the barracks,” Richter explained, “then use gasoline to set the huts on fire. After that I was going to lead my men out to fight the enemy.”

This last part was a lie, Richter had no intention of fighting anyone. His men had their rifles, a couple of machine-guns but only a few boxes of ammunition. Any attempt at slowing the allied advance would at best be a futile gesture. Until Konig had turned up he had fully intended to lock up the camp, release his men and then head for the nearest village and find either an army uniform or some civilian clothes. His hand drifted towards the flap of his holster as he toyed with the idea of shooting the unpleasant little colonel dead. He glanced over to where the colonel’s men stood, there were only four of them but they looked tough and what was more they were heavily armed with the new assault rifles that had arrived from the factories just too late to save the Reich.

“Do what you must, Hauptsturmfuhrer,” Konig ordered, “but have those prisoners cleaned up and ready to move in an hour.”

“Jawohl Herr Standartenfuhrer!” Richter sprang to attention and saluted, “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler,” Konig tossed off a casual salute as he turned and walked briskly over to where his men waited for him.

0=0=0=0

**A farm near Werlte.**

“Miss Summers,” Peter called as he stood with his two vehicle commanders, “would you join us for a moment.”

Turning away from where she’d been helping Trooper Payne clear up after breakfast, Buffy walked over to join Peter. After climbing into bed the previous night, she’d slept like the dead until someone had knocked on her door and left her a cup of tea and a jug of hot water. Having washed, dressed and drunk her tea, Buffy had gone downstairs and helped Payne cook breakfast for the rest of the troop. It all seemed pretty relaxed to her, nothing like what she’d expected a military unit to be like, everyone, including Captain Giles, helped out with the usual early morning chores. It was only when the soldiers were busy packing everything back onto their armoured cars that, Peter called Sergeant Wotton and Corporal Jones to one side, they’d been looking at their maps for several minutes before Peter had called Buffy over to join them.

“I don’t suppose you have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the locations of all German concentration camps, do you Miss Summers?” Peter asked hopefully.

“Sorry,” Buffy shrugged and shook her head.

“Oh well, just thought I’d ask,” Peter sighed as he turned back to his map. “As I see it,” he explained, “our problem is that we don’t know the exact location of this Nazi hell hole. We know its somewhere in this area,” Peter’s finger traced out an area on his map south of Werlte, “as you can see it’s pretty heavily forested it could take days to search.”

“We could split the area up into three and search each square with one car, Sir,” Sergeant Wotton suggested.

“You mean split the troop up?” Peter pulled a face, he obviously didn’t like the idea.

“Cover more ground that way, Sir,” Wotton pointed out, “Its probably the only way we’re going to be able to search the area in a reasonable amount of time…it’s either that or whistle up more troops.”

“No,” Peter shook his head, “I don’t want to do that until we have a better idea of what’s going on…however,” Peter paused in thought for a long minute, “I think you could be onto something, Sergeant.”

Taking a pencil, Peter quickly divided the area to be searched up into three roughly equal sections.

“Eyes wide open, chaps,” Peter cautioned, “radio checks and loc-stats ever fifteen minutes and if you run into trouble, get out fast, no heroics, understand?”

“Sir!” The two NCO’s braced to attention before returning to their vehicles.

“What do you want me to do?” Buffy asked having kept quiet throughout the briefing.

“You, Miss Summers,” Peter smiled down at her as he folded up his map, “will stay with me. Call me Mister Cautious if you like but I want to keep a close eye on you.”

“Don’t you trust me or something?” Buffy asked slightly hurt that Peter still had reservations about her.

“Oh no, Miss Summers,” Peter cried, “nothing like that.” Peter sighed heavily, “It’s just that Sergeant Wotton and myself were discussing your rather sudden and mysterious appearance and well…”

“You think I’m here for a reason?” Buffy asked slowly.

“Well, slayers tend to turn up where they’re most needed,” Peter pointed out, “and if you are needed I want to be there to keep an eye on things and you of course.”

0=0=0=0

**Werlte Lager.**

Less than five miles from where Peter held his little briefing, Standartenfuhrer Konig opened his own map and rested it on the bonnet of his Kubelwagen.

“Here,” Konig tapped his finger on the map, “this is where I want you to go, Huber.”

The Oberscharfuhrer bent over the map to get a better view, he nodded his head slowly in understanding.

“I want you to set up the altar in this clearing, yes?” Konig explained.

“Understood, Herr Standartenfuhrer,” Huber glanced nervously over at the truck, “What about the…” fear prevented him from naming what the truck held, so he just gestured at the vehicle.

“Leave that to me,” Konig noted the NCO’s reluctance to even say the name of the horror that lurked in the truck, “take Schneider and Becker with you. Leave Hoffmann here with me, I don’t trust Herr Richter to carry out his orders and I might need Hoffmann to…persuade him.”

“Jawohl Herr Standartenfuhrer!” Huber snapped to attention.

“Good,” Konig nodded, Huber was a good soldier and a loyal Nazi he could be relied upon to do his duty, “carry on, I’ll join you before midday all being well, we’ll start the ceremony at last light.”

0=0=0=0

Smiling, Konig watched as Richter had the selected prisoners formed into a column. In the time he’d been allotted he’d managed to have the prisoners showered and fed, he’d even found them clean uniforms, Konig was well pleased. He watched as Richter had a machine gun fitted to his Kubelwagen, and another fitted to Konig’s. The little field cars would be placed at either end of the column to discourage any thoughts of escape that the prisoners might still harbour. To be honest, Konig didn’t want to lose even one prisoner; fifty sacrifices was the bare minimum needed for the ceremony.

“Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter!” Konig called and watched as the man ran over to him and come to a halt a few paces in front of him, “is everything ready?”

“Jawohl Herr Standartenfuhrer!” Richter replied, “The prisoners you requested are formed up. The others are being dealt with as we speak.”

Looking over Richter’s shoulder, Konig saw the last few unselected prisoners being herded into the barracks and locked in.

“I’ve put the remaining guards under the orders of a trusted sergeant,” Richter explained, “after they’ve fired the camp he’ll lead the men and take up a position defending a local bridge,” Richter pointed down the track outside the camp. “If the Tommy’s come that way his orders are to slow them up for as long as possible.”

“Good,” Konig nodded his head; he was no military man but Richter’s plan seemed sound enough, “We’ll leave now, get the prisoners moving.”

0=0=0=0

Watching as Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter’s Kubelwagen disappeared down the track, Sergeant Bauer turned to face the guards he’d been left with. He studied their faces and calculated the chances the men who’d been left behind would actually obey the orders he’d been given. Shaking his head slowly he took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair.

“Look,” Bauer sighed tiredly, “the officers have fucked off and left us here. I for one have no intention of dying gloriously for the Fatherland. Whatever we do the Amies or the Tommy’s will roll right over us, they’ll hardly slow down.”

There were mutterings of agreement from the little band of men; Bauer noticed one or two of them who didn’t look too sure but the others would probably carry them along.

“What I think is this,” Bauer slung his rifle over his shoulder, “we lock this place up and head off into the woods before splitting up. Get out of these uniforms; I’m thinking the Tommy’s in particular won’t show us any mercy. Find yourselves ordinary uniforms and surrender first chance you get.”

“What about the prisoners?” Private Schulz wanted to know; Schulz was one of the men that Bauer had been concerned about.

“Leave them for the Tommy’s and Amies to worry about,” Bauer started to walk towards the gate, “come on,” he called, “let’s get out of here!”

0=0=0=0

“CO-AX-MEN-ON! FIRE!” Peter yelled just before his voice was drowned out by the stutter of machine gun fire.

Taking cover behind the armoured car’s turret, Buffy watched as lines of tracer reached out to the men who’d been crossing the track about fifty yards ahead of them. Watching in quiet fascination, Buffy saw the men throw up their arms and fall, scythed down by the hurricane of fire hurled at them.

“TARGET, STOP!” Peter straightened up from behind his machine gun and glanced around to check that Buffy was alright, “You alright back there, Miss Summers?”

“Apart from ringing ears, totally,” Buffy stood up to look down the track, “what’s going on?”

“Huns,” Peter grinned, “now dead Huns.”

Trooper Cooper poked his head out of the turret to study his handiwork.

“We got them all, Cooper,” Peter assured the man before ducking down into the turret and calling down to Davies, “Take us up to the bodies would you Davies, I want to take a shufti at what we’ve bagged.”

The armoured car lurched forward causing Buffy to grab hold of the turret hatch to steady herself. The vehicle got closer to the scattered bodies and Buffy could make out details of how the men had died. The German’s lay in strangely contorted positions on the track way their bodies riddled with bullet holes. Feeling a little queasy at the sight of the bodies and the blood, Buffy turned away as Peter jumped down from the turret and started to search the corpses. Buffy had come to think of herself as hardened to the sight of death in all of its many and varied forms. But this was the first time she’d ever seen anyone torn apart by multiple hits from machine-guns; she’d never imagined that firearms could do so much damage.

“SS guards, by the looks of them,” he called up, “could mean we’re getting close.” He started to climb back up into the turret, “Cooper, get on the blower and contact Sergeant Wotton and Corporal Jones tell them to head for…” Peter examined his map and pointed a location out to Cooper, “…this bridge, tell them we might have found something.”

Looking over Peter’s shoulder, Buffy studied the map, not that it meant very much to her, to her eyes it looked like a jumble of coloured lines and indecipherable symbols.

“I don’t want to second guess you,” Buffy said as the armoured car started to move again, she swallowed hard as she realised they’d driven right over the bodies. “But couldn’t you have taken them prisoner or something?”

“And do what with them, Miss Summers?” Peter glanced up from his map, “What would you have me do with them?”

“You could have disarmed them and let them go,” Buffy pointed out, “I mean the war must nearly be over.”

“Miss Summers,” Peter turned to face her, a frown on his face, “those were SS prison guards, had they been ordinary soldiers perhaps I might have done what you suggested. But those devils, who knows what they’ve done?”

“Okay,” Buffy insisted, “take them prisoner and hand them over to stand trial.”

“HA!” Peter threw his head back and laughed, “I don’t know how you handle things in your time, Miss Summers, but in the here and now this is how we deal with scum like that. Anyway they’d have probably been hung. This way they get a quick death without all the messing about with a trial.”

Sitting on the edge of the turret, Buffy considered what Peter had said, she supposed he was right. It wasn’t as if her own life wasn’t blameless, she’d done some things she wasn’t exactly proud of. Shaking her head, Buffy decided to let Peter get on with what he was doing. Anyway, from her point of view this had already happened there was nothing she could do about it.

“Davies,” Peter called to his driver after he’d climbed aboard his car again, “about a hundred yards down this track there should be a track off to the right. We’ll turn down there and see what we can see…foot down, lets not waste anymore time.”

Again the armoured car lurched forward as it accelerated along the uneven track and Buffy concentrated on hanging on to the turret and not being thrown out onto the ground. It was early afternoon and they’d spent all morning searching fruitlessly for the concentration camp that the council in London claimed was in the area. The area south of Werlte was one big, dark, brooding forest cut through with rough logging tracks. Apart from a few areas of felled trees and the guards that Peter had shot there’d been no sigh of any camp or activity related to it anywhere.

Turning on to the new track, Trooper Davies drove the car as fast as he dared along the trail. Even though this track appeared smoother and better made, Buffy still felt that her spine was going to be bounced through the top of her head at almost any moment. They’d been driving for about five minutes when a sweet, sickly smell came to Buffy’s nose, she was familiar with that smell, it was the smell of death.

“Peter!” she called as she pulled on his sleeve trying to get his attention, “Stop!”

“DRIVER HALT!” Peter yelled down to Davies before turning to Buffy, “What’s wrong?”

The vehicle came to a sudden halt and Buffy grabbed hold of Peter to stop herself from falling out of the turret, just for a moment there eyes met as they struggled to steady themselves. Looking away, Buffy sat up straight again.

“Don’t you smell that?” Buffy asked.

“Small what?” Peter replied as he looked around at the trees that towered over the track, “Remember I haven't got slayer senses.”

“Sorry,” Buffy concentrated for a moment as she tried to work out from which direction the smell was coming; without knowing how she knew, she pointed to the left hand side of the track. “It’s coming from over there, its like death.”

“Right-ho,” Peter nodded his head, “lets go take a shufti, slow ahead Davies, Cooper traverse half left.”

The armoured car started to move at a much more sedate pace as the turret swung slightly to point out over the front left wheel.

“If there’s trouble,” Peter glanced at Buffy, “jump off and hide in the woods, we’ll come back and find you.”

Nodding, Buffy had every intention of running and hiding, bullets could kill her just as dead as anyone else.

“Oh shit,” the words drifted up from where Cooper had his eye pressed against his gun sight, “contact left front, Sir!”

Looking up from where he’d been checking his machine gun, Peter joined Buffy in looking over to the left of the track, they’d found the camp. It had been built in a large clearing in the forest, Peter noticed a couple of brick buildings that looked like an old farm house, they’d probably been used as the basis for the camp. There were about a dozen long, low wooden huts, probably barracks for the prisoners. These were surrounded by a high barbed wire fence; there were guard towers at the corners of the fence with searchlights and what looked like a guard hut by the main gate. Without waiting for the order, Davies stopped the Daimler at the gate.

“Cooper,” Peter said quietly as if afraid to disturb the silence that hung over the camp like a pawl, “contact Sergeant Wotton and Corporal Jones, give them this grid in clear and tell them to get here pronto, alright?”

“Sir,” Cooper started to speak into his microphone.

Sitting there, Buffy sort out Peter’s hand and held on to it tightly, this was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Tasting the death on her tongue, she felt like throwing up her breakfast and the lunch of Bully Beef and biscuits she’d had an hour ago. The smell filled the air, the sweet sickly scent of death underscored with the sewer stench of human waste, but what was worse was the complete and utter silence. The sound of Peter moving snapped Buffy out of her trance-like state.

“I suppose we better go see what’s to see,” he said quietly as he climbed out of the turret, “after all that is our job.”

0=0=0=0


	8. Chapter 8

8.

**Werlte Lager.**

“Here,” Peter held out the Tommy-gun to Buffy, he could see her refusal start to build in her eyes, “if someone shoots at you, you might want to shoot back.”

Reluctantly, Buffy accepted the weapon and the two spare magazines that Peter passed to her. They stood between the armoured car and the camp gates the silence beating against their ears louder than the most ferocious artillery barrage or the heaviest bomber raid. Feeling the comforting weight of the Tommy-gun nestling in her arms like a new born child, Buffy glanced over at Peter to find him staring at her.

“Well,” Peter licked his suddenly dry lips, “I suppose we better take a look around.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed quietly; neither of them moved.

Something was telling Buffy that if she walked through those gates into the camp beyond she’d never be the same person again. Yes, she’d seen the grainy photographs in her history books of the emaciated victims of Nazi Germany. The old newsreel footage of the victims of the camps shuffling around in a daze after their liberation; but that was all black and white unreality, watched from a safe distance of fifty years. This was real; this was just the other side of a barbed wire fence.

Hearing Peter’s boots crunch on the gravel track that led to the gate, Buffy looked up to see Peter take the unlocked padlock and chain from the gate and push it open. Blinking as if coming out of a trance, Buffy found herself following him in through the gate and into the camp itself. They’d left Cooper and Davies back at the armoured car, the two men sitting in the turret, Cooper with his eye pressed to the rubber padding of his gun sight, while Davies called for the other two vehicles to hurry up and arrive. Standing just inside the gate, Buffy pointed to the closest hut with her Tommy-gun.

“Let’s start here,” she said quietly and started to walk towards the hut, its wooden walls stained by years of weather. “You know,” Buffy said softly as Peter drew up beside her, “although I know what to expect it doesn’t actually make this any easier.”

“You know what to expect?” Peter asked incredulously.

“Sure,” Buffy nodded her head, they were only a couple of yards from the door now, “remember this is all history to me.”

“Doors locked,” Peter raised his own Tommy-gun to shoot the lock off.

“Wait,” Buffy stepped forward took the lock in her small hand and then pulled and twisted, the lock came away in her hand.

Ducking down, the door was low even for her, Buffy pushed it open. The stench from inside hit her like she’d walked into a brick wall, this was something no film or photograph could ever have prepared her for. Taking a step into the dark, fetid, interior her eyes quickly adapted to the darkness and she saw rows of gaunt white faces with big eyes starting at her in one seemingly endless mass. Gagging she turned back to the door and almost knocking Peter down in her rush to get out of the hut; she scrambled outside and retched up her breakfast and lunch onto the dusty ground.

0=0=0=0

Sitting on the mud guard of Peter’s little tank, Buffy drew deeply on her cigarette. The smoke caught in her throat and made her cough a little but the nicotine calmed her and stopped her hands from shaking. What she really wanted was a drink, she’d not even thought of having a drink for well over a year, after her struggle with the Demon Alcohol. But today if someone gave her a bottle of vodka she’d have downed it in one go. Hearing the sound of yet more trucks, Buffy looked up to see another British army vehicle pull in through the gates of the camp.

Having lost her stomach contents after opening that first hut, Peter had wanted to send her back to where his armoured car was parked outside the gate. Shaking her head, Buffy had regained control of her stomach and walked off down the line of the huts ripping the locks off each door and pulling them open. Behind her the stronger of the survivors shuffled like walking corpses out into the sunlight and sat on the road while what remained of their minds tried to come to grips with these strange new occurrences.

Walking around the camp, Buffy had kicked open or ripped the locks off doors. This wasn’t an extermination camp so there were no gas chambers. However, she did find a long deep trench where the bodies of the dead inmates had been dumped. From what she could see and what she could remember from history classes; it would appear that any inmates that were either too weak or too sick to work were simply lined up along the edge of the trench and shot, their bodies falling neatly into the hole.

Breaking into what Peter had suggested was an old farm house, Buffy found the offices from where the SS had run the camp. Everything was in disorder, papers lay thickly on the floor and there were piles of paper ash in the fire places and stoves where the guards had tried to destroy the evidence of what they’d been doing. Walking through the offices she found what must have been the camp commander’s office. Going inside she found the same litter of paper on the floor, the drawers to the desk and filing cabinets hung open from where the documents of death had been taken.

Drifting around the office, Buffy looked at the photographs on the walls; they showed an unremarkable man in a smart uniform, sometimes with other uniformed men sometimes alone. Standing behind the desk, she picked up a framed photo of a pretty young blonde woman; a wife or sweetheart, perhaps a sister? Wondering how anyone who was involved in what had happened here could go home to a wife at the end of the day; Buffy placed the picture face down on the desk and made her way outside again.

Standing outside the office building, Buffy stood there with her Tommy-gun hanging from its strap on her shoulder, she really wished there had been some guards still in the camp, she’d have shot them without a single thought. Turning to walk back toward the gate, Buffy nearly walked into one of the living skeletons that populated the camp. Attempting to avoid the sunken eyed wraith, Buffy tried to step to one side but the thing of skin and bone that had once been a woman threw herself at Buffy and wrapped her arms around her neck. 

Sobbing quietly the woman said something in a language Buffy didn’t understand. Her arms slipped from around Buffy’s neck as she started to fall slowly to the ground. Hanging onto the woman, Buffy gently laid her down on the bare earth only to realise the woman was already dead. The excitement of her liberation had proved too much for her and she’d died at the moment of her freedom. At that very moment, Buffy seriously doubted that if she saw a German child being ripped apart by demons or fed on by vampires that she’d lift a finger to help.

Still perched on the mud guard of the armoured car, Buffy lit another cigarette from the butt of the first and watched as more men climbed from the trucks that had just arrived. Within minutes of Peter and herself realising what they’d found, Peter had radioed for help. First a couple of jeeps had turned up and a man with red patches on the collar of his uniform he'd got out and taken a look around. After no more than five minutes he’d reappeared from out of the camp. He must have had a radio in his jeep because within a few more minutes trucks with red crosses and ambulances began to arrive. Men started to climb down from the vehicles and began to do what they could for the inmates. Quite often this meant just carrying them outside so they could at least die in the sunshine.

“Here you go, Miss,” it was Trooper Payne with a mug of tea, “this’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Buffy accepted the mug of steaming tea, “But I don’t think anything will ever make me feel better after this.”

Standing next to Buffy, Payne shuffled his feet uncomfortably for a moment not knowing what to say for the best.

“You better have this too,” Payne pulled a beret from one of his many pockets and handed it to Buffy. “Put it on and hide your hair, there’s too many officers around who might think it odd for a girl to be sitting around dressed in one of our old uniforms.”

“Thanks,” Buffy put down her tea and threw away her cigarette; taking the beret from Payne she put it on her head and carefully hid her hair.

Standing in front of her, Payne made a few adjustments to Buffy’s new head gear and smiled once he was satisfied.

“There you are Miss,” he grinned, “you look like a proper little trooper now. If anyone that you don’t know says anything to you, just look stunned and shocked…a bit like you do now, and don’t say anything, alright?”

“I understand,” Buffy nodded her head and started to search for another cigarette.

“Sorry,” Payne frowned, “I’ve got to get back to work now,” he shrugged, “more tea to brew.”

Hardly noticing the young man walk away, Buffy retreated back into her dark thoughts. If it’d been demons who’d done this, she felt sure she’d be able to handle it better. It was the realisation that, so-called, normal human beings had done this not monsters that had completely upset her world view. People didn’t do this sort of thing, only monsters did things like this; the idea that people could be monsters too was totally alien to her.

“I say, Trooper!” A voice Buffy didn’t know intruded into her consciousness, she tried to ignore it.

“Trooper?” The voice was closer now and it took Buffy a moment to realise that the voice was talking to her.

Looking up she saw a man in what she’d come to recognise as an officer’s uniform standing a couple of feet away in front of her, he wore a Red Cross armband on his uniform.

“Bloody hell!” the officer exclaimed as he saw Buffy’s face, “You’re a bit young for this sort of thing.”

Buffy just sat there, cigarette hanging from her lip and said nothing.

“Did you go into the camp, old chap?” the army medic asked softly; Buffy nodded yes. “Did you…erm,” the officer seemed lost for words for a moment, “did you touch anyone?”

Again Buffy nodded.

“Not to worry old man,” the medic forced a smile, “just make sure you wash your hands and face thoroughly as soon as you can, alright?” Buffy nodded once again, “Don’t want any outbreaks of cholera do we?”

This time Buffy shook her head as she put her cigarette between her lips and took a long drag on it.

“Look, old son,” the officer stepped closer and spoke quietly to Buffy, “war’ll soon be over and you’ll be off home I expect. You’ll soon get over all this,” he gestured towards the camp, “once you’re home with your family again.”

Buffy certainly hoped so.

0=0=0=0

**The Forest near Werlte Lager.**

Checking his watch, Standartenfuhrer Konig saw that it was still only late afternoon, it would be several hours before he could start the ceremony and save the Reich. He’d arrived with the sacrifices a little later than he’d expected, they’d had to hide from roaming Tommy fighter bombers on several occasions. Once a couple of the sacrifices had tried to escape and had to be recaptured; Konig had had to stop the guards from damaging them too much as to make them worthless for the use he had planned for them.

Reaching the clearing, Konig had found that Oberscharfuhrer Huber had already set up the altar at the top of the little hill in the middle of the clearing. The rest of the afternoon had been spent with Konig instructing his men in how to set out the rest of the mystical symbols around the clearing. Everything had to be done just so or the summoning wouldn’t work however many sacrifices he had.

The ceremony would come in too parts; first would be the summoning were they’d free the Old One from the vessel that carried it. This would require the expenditure of the greater number of his sacrifices. Then he would quickly have to bind the Old One to do his will, this would require the expenditure of at least five sacrifices. Deciding that he’d need at least ten sacrifices to ensure the binding of the Old One to him, Konig gave the women he was going to kill a worried look. Did they still possess enough life force to satisfy the Old One? The women looked thin and cowed apart from a few that still showed some spirit, those he had singled out to bind the Old One. The others would die like cattle under his knife.

Another thing which was worrying Konig was Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter. The man had become increasingly edgy and restless as the afternoon had worn on. Konig suspected that Richter had had no intention of fighting to the death after he’d left the work camp. No doubt if Konig hadn’t stopped him, Richter would have changed into army uniform and surrendered to the allies at the first opportunity, the man would need watching. If he turned on Konig the chances were that his men would as well and Konig needed Richter’s men to guard the prisoners and help with the actual sacrifices.

“Herr Standartenfuhrer!” Richter called as he made his way over to Konig.

“What is it, Hauptsturmfuhrer?” Konig replied wearily.

“I have held my tongue for long enough, Herr Standartenfuhrer,” Richter came to a halt a few feet away from Konig; he noticed how the Hauptsturmfuhrer’s right hand rested on the flap of his holster. “I demand to know what you are doing and how long you intend to keep me and my men here.”

“You have somewhere better to go, perhaps?” Konig said as he slowly turned to face Richter. “I have told you before, I am here to save the Reich and you will not question me again!”

“You’re insane!” Richter pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it at Konig’s stomach. “Nothing can save the Reich now, all is lost and you will not bring me down with your insane plans!”

“As you wish,” Konig sighed; he glanced over Richter’s should, “Hoffman,” he ordered, “deal with the Hauptsturmfuhrer will you?”

Snarling, Corporal Hoffman leapt at Richter, bore him to the ground and ripped out his throat. 

“LEAVE!” Konig ordered sharply.

Still growling and snarling, Hoffman left the blood soaked remains of Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter lying at Konig’s feet.

“Good man,” Konig tossed the wolf-man in SS clothing a dog biscuit; Konig turned to face the little crowd of prison guards who had watched everything in horrified fascination. “Listen to me,” Konig called in his best military tone, “you will all do as I say and follow my orders to the letter without question, understand?”

The guards nodded their heads dumbly.

“If any of you have any doubts or questions,” Konig smiled at the guards, “I’m sure Corporal Hoffman here will be willing to discuss them with you.”

The guard’s eyes shifted to Hoffman who was wiping blood from around his muzzle with his paw-like hands.

“Good,” Konig said in a much friendlier tone, he glanced at his watch again. “Time is getting on so we may as well get started,” Konig turned towards the sergeant in charge of the guards. “Bring the prisoners up to the altar,” he pointed at the altar on top of the hill, “have them strip and then use their uniforms to bind their wrists behind their backs and their ankles so they can’t run away.”

Pausing for a moment, Konig studied the dull eyed soldiers. They were all sufficiently terrified of Hoffman at the moment and they would obey him for now. That would probably change as the ceremony progressed, but by then he wouldn’t need them, his own men would be more that capable of dealing with the sacrifices. But until then he would still need them.

“You have your orders,” Konig snapped, “get on with them!”

The guards jumped as one man and turned to collect up the prisoners before herding them into position, Konig glanced at Hoffman who’d remained in wolf-man form.

“Keep an eye on them, Hoffman,” Konig tossed the wolf-man another biscuit, the wolf-man caught the treat between his great heavy jaws and crunched down on it before turning to follow the guards over to where the prisoners sat.

Congratulating himself on dealing swiftly and successfully with what could have been and difficult situation, Konig headed down the slope to where Huber waited next to his truck.

“Everything in order, Oberscharfuhrer?” Konig asked as he got closer.

“Jawohl Herr Standartenfuhrer,” Huber replied as he sprang to attention, “But…”

“But?” Konig tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow at the senior NCO.

“The vessel, sir,” Huber cast a worried eye towards the truck, “he seems restless.”

“Let me see,” Konig let Huber lead him around to the rear of the truck, sure enough he could hear the vessel scratching on the inside of the door. “Don’t worry Huber,” Konig told him lightly, “I expect he’s feeling a little lonely and bored. After all he has been locked up in there all day.”

“If you say so, Sir,” Huber cast Konig a worried look and stepped back from the door at the back of the truck.

“Here,” Konig produced a key from his pocket and started to unlock the door, “I’ll deal with this.”

Pulling the door open, Konig was vaguely aware of a dark-brown and tan shape leap towards him.

“Hey!” Konig cried as the vessel jumped out of the truck and onto the ground at Konig’s feet. “Bad boy, Willey!” Konig said without much conviction as Willey the Dachshund ran around his feet barking and wagging his tail, happy to be out of the truck after so long.

0=0=0=0


	9. Chapter 9

9.

**One Thousand Feet above Germany.**

Easing his Typhoon across the sky in wide slow curves, Flight ‘Leftenant’ Charles Kenworth watched out of his canopy looking for ‘targets of opportunity’. His wingman and himself had originally been sent to the support the army’s advance on Cloppenburg, but by the time they’d arrived in the skies above the target the town was a smoking ruin and there were no worthwhile targets to attack. Eventually the air controller had released them to attack ‘targets of opportunity’ before heading back to Belgium and a nice cuppa.

So far Kenworth had seen nothing worth expending any of his cannon ammunition on, let alone the eight rockets slung beneath his wings. Reversing his bank, Kenworth checked on the position of his wingman, scanned the skies for any stray German fighters and then went back to watching the ground for anything interesting. One had to be careful, he told himself, the ‘Brown Jobs’ were all over the area and got really annoyed if you attacked after mistaking them for one of the little pockets of Germans that were scattered about the area. So, when he saw trucks on a track leading to what looked like a barracks, he didn’t immediately turn to attack.

“Red Leader to Red one, over,” Kenworth call his wingman, Pilot Officer Proon.

“Receiving, Red Leader,” Proon replied.

“What do you make of those buildings down there, Berty?” Kenworth asked as he led the two aircraft in a wide circle around the camp or whatever it was.

“Looks like a barracks to me Charlie,” Proon replied, “but those don’t look like Jerry trucks.”

“Roger,” Kenworth replied, “watch my tail I’m going down for a closer look.”

0=0=0=0

Still sitting on the mud guard of Peter’s armoured car, Buffy had watched the aircraft as they’d flown around the camp. When the aircraft had first appeared several of the soldiers around her had put binoculars to their eyes and watched them for a few minutes before identifying them as friendly. With nothing better to do she’d followed their course as they’d flown in a wide circle around the camp. One of the aircraft then broke away from its partner, flew even lower and started to fly directly towards were she was sitting. Fascinated, Buffy watched as the aircraft got closer and closer, not really knowing why she’d waved at the oncoming aircraft, not that she expected the pilot to see her. The aircraft waggled its wings at her before it zoomed over her head and started to climb to rejoin its comrade.

0=0=0=0

“No luck Skipper?” Proon called over his radio as Kenworth rejoined him.

“Brown Jobs,” Kenworth informed his wingman, “lots of ambulances down there, I think they must have found one of those camp things we’ve been hearing about.”

For a moment there was silence between the two pilots.

“I say Skipper,” Proon called breaking the silence, “I’ve still got about half an hours fuel before I have to turn for home and it would be a shame not to fire off these rockets.”

“I know,” agreed Kenworth, “it annoys the armourers no end if you go home with the things still attached,” Kenworth paused as he checked his fuel gauge, “Half an hour you say? Plenty of time to stooge around and find something interesting.”

0=0=0=0

**The Forest near Werlte Lager.**

Working quickly, Oberscharfuhrer Huber cut the throat of the twelfth sacrifice while Standartenfuhrer Konig chanted the words from the great book. Having decided that he daren’t wait any longer Konig had decided to start the ceremony that would release the Old One from Willey the Dachshund. At first the little dog had barked excitedly as each new victim was dragged towards the altar by the terrified guards. But now the dog just sat there quietly becoming less and less dog-like as each woman had her throat cut and her blood soaked into the forest floor.

Glancing up at the sound of aircraft engines, Konig kept chanting, he dare not stop now, that would ruin the ceremony and he’d have to start again from the beginning. Catching sight of the aircraft he watched them fly slowly around the clearing, he was no expert but something told him they weren’t German. He kept on chanting as another struggling woman was laid on the altar and Huber cut her throat. Her blood spurted over Huber’s rubber apron and splashed onto the grown at his feet. The Oberscharfuhrer pushed the woman’s body off the table to join the growing pile of corpses before signalling the guards to bring another screaming woman over to feed his knife.

0=0=0=0

“Something odd down there, Berty,” Kenworth called as he pulled his aircraft around in a tight circle as he kept the clearing in view.

“Looks like Hun trucks and personnel to me, Skipper,” Proon replied.

“Jolly good show,” Kenworth levelled out and pushed his throttle forward a little, “follow me, Tally-ho!”

0=0=0=0

Breathing a sigh of relief, Konig watched as the aircraft zoomed off to the west, no doubt he’d been mistaken and the aircraft were in fact German. His eye fell on Willey, the dog seemed to be growing larger and less dog-like each time Huber ran his sacrificial knife across a woman’s throat. Looking down at his book and reading ahead a little as he kept chanting, Konig saw that he was coming to one of the important parts of the ceremony. When he’d completed this section the rip in reality would open and the Old One trapped inside Willy would be able to draw life force from its own reality. From that point onwards the Old One would get stronger and stronger until nothing on this Earth or any other could stop it! This was why it was so important for Konig to bind the Old One to his will. If he didn’t the Old One would suck every scrap of Life-Force from the world leaving it a dead husk of a world forever floating in space like some huge mausoleum.

The first inkling that Konig had that anything was going wrong was when the world appeared to explode all around him. He ducked involuntarily but still had the presence of mind to keep chanting. As long as he kept chanting the last line of the ceremony he’d recited over and over it would act like a finger placed between the pages of a book to act as a bookmark. As long as he continued saying the words he wouldn’t have to go back to the beginning and start again. 

The world continued exploding around him, he heard and felt hot metal buzz through the air above his head. Smoke and fire billowed towards the sky as aircraft roared overhead spreading death and destruction like two vengeful angels. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes the attack stopped and silence fell over the clearing. Still whispering the words over and over, Konig got to his feet and looked around. The clearing was now pockmarked with huge craters. His Kubelwagen and truck were smouldering wrecks and the guards had either run off or been killed. Looking back towards the altar he saw Huber lying on the ground his head torn off by a piece of flying shrapnel. A growl and a scream turned Konig’s eyes towards the prisoners where Hoffman dragged a wounded woman towards the altar. Giving the wolfman a smile of thanks and encouragement, Konig went on with the next part of the ceremony.

0=0=0=0

“MOUNT UP SECOND TROOP!” Peter yelled as he ran towards the little group of armoured cars.

“What’s up?” Buffy stood up and moved to take up her usual place behind the turret as Peter and his crew climbed aboard.

“Look,” Peter pointed to where a column of smoke rose above the treeline, “Couple of RAF types spotted something odd going on in the trees there.” Peter got down into his turret and put on his headsets as Davies started the motor. “They attacked it, but the Brigadier still wants us to investigate.”

Frowning, Buffy wondered what was so special about something in the woods and said so.

“Look,” Peter raised his microphone to his lips and gave Davies his instructions, “we investigate the ‘odd’ and it gets us away from this place.”

The armoured car lurched off along the track away from the camp. Once again Buffy had to hold on tight to prevent herself from being tossed overboard. The Tommy-gun hanging over her shoulder banged into her leg as she sat down on the engine deck and braced her feet and arms to stop herself being thrown around so much.

The armoured car sped down the track at a speed that Buffy calculated as being ‘too fast’. However, after only a couple of hundred yards the vehicle jerked to a halt and Buffy heard Peter telling Davies to drive down an even narrower track to their right. Not only was this track narrower than the one they’d just turned off, it was also not as well made. The armoured car bounced from side to side and Buffy started to feel sea sick. As she was just thanking whoever for making her a slayer, because without slayer strength she’d have been thrown into the trees ages ago, Peter’s car burst out into a large clearing.

“ACTION!” Peter yelled and Buffy watched as Peter prepared his machine-gun for firing and Cooper did something to the guns in the turret; thinking she better follow suit, Buffy cocked her Tommy-gun and held it tightly in her hands.

The clearing had to be at least a hundred yards wide, it was hard to tell because a lot of smoke and a few flames obscured Buffy’s view of most of it. There were a couple of trucks burning in the wood line where someone had tried to hide them. The flames from the trucks were spreading to the surrounding trees and Buffy suspected that if they weren’t careful there’d be a pretty serious forest fire soon. The centre of the clearing rose to form a low hill; it was as Buffy’s eyes follow the line of the hill upwards that she saw movement. Crying out a warning Buffy pointed to the figures moving through the smoke.

“What do you see?” Peter called to Cooper who had his eye pressed to his gun sight.

“Couple of Huns, Sir,” Cooper replied, “Look like they’re doing some sort of ritual.”

“CO-AX! FIRE!” Peter yelled and almost immediately the armoured car’s machine gun started to fire as Peter joined in with his own weapon.

Watching as tracer flew all over the clearing as the armoured car continued its unstable way towards what Buffy now suspected was an altar of some kind, she saw the two uniformed figures dive for cover. Sergeant Wotton’s and Corporal Jones’ vehicles had now joined Peter’s and the sound of there machine guns beat on Buffy sensitive ears like some kind of mad man with an ice-pick.

0=0=0=0

Something like a sledge hammer crashed into Konig’s shoulder and sent him flying across the clearing away from the altar. The appearance of the three little tank-like vehicles had come as a complete surprise to him. He hadn’t thought that the allies had been that close. Pushing himself up on his right arm, Konig looked at where his left ended in a bloody stump and almost vomited at the sight. For all the blood and torture he’d seen and inflicted over the last few years the sight of his own blood turned his stomach.

Of course he’d stopped chanting as soon as the bullets had hit him, but it didn’t matter now. The rip in reality was open and the Old One was drawing energy through the rift, Willey had grown and suddenly vanished to be replaced by a vague blue sparkling mist that grew larger and more solid with every passing moment that the rift stayed open. Of course there was now no one to bind the Old One and as soon as it was strong enough it would start to destroy the world. Not that he cared of course, he was as good as dead, if blood loss or the Tommy’s didn’t kill him the Old One certainly would.

Turning his head at the sound of a branch snapping under someone’s boot, Konig saw a short scruffy Tommy walk towards him. Just for a moment, Konig was about to berate the soldier for being so untidy. But he didn’t, he just collapsed onto his back and laughed, at their moment of victory the Tommy’s had lost, how ironic was that?

0=0=0=0

Lifting her Tommy-gun, Buffy shot the laughing SS man dead where he lay. Having seen the pile of corpses that had obviously not been killed in the air attack she had been in no mood to take prisoners. Satisfied that the German was dead, she turned back to rejoin Peter. Several of the naked women who lay with their hands and feet bound were miraculously still alive. Some of Peter’s men were cutting them free and wrapping them in coats and blankets and tending to their wounds. Watching as the men worked quietly and gently helping the women away from this place that had so nearly been their final resting place; Buffy had never realised soldiers could be so tender and caring. Her own experiences with the soldiers of the Initiative had not been good, perhaps it was time to reassess her feelings towards the military.

“Miss Summers?”

Buffy looked around at the sound of Peter’s voice, she walked over to join him as he stood watching the swirling blue mass that swayed in front of what looked like a rip in reality.

“What do you make of that?” Peter asked quietly.

“Looks like a portal to me,” Buffy had seen more than enough portals to alternative dimensions in her life to recognise one when she saw one. “If Willow was here she’d be able to close it, you know I don’t think puppies and kittens are gonna come tumbling out of that.”

“Agreed,” Peter nodded, “Who’s Willow?”

“My best friend,” Buffy explained, “and a mega powerful witch, she’d close that thing up inna blink of an eye.”

“Really?” Peter turned and raised an eyebrow at Buffy; she in turn gave him a puzzled look.

“Gotta say,” Buffy fidgeted with her Tommy-gun, “you don’t seem too worried about that thing,” she gestured towards the blue swirly thing and the hole, “my experience of this sorta thing is not of the good.”

“Oh,” Peter turned and walked back to where his vehicle had stopped, Buffy followed him, “we might not have any ‘Mega Powerful Witches’,” he observed, “but we have dealt with this sort of thing before.”

“Huh?” Buffy watched as Peter pulled something like a large back pack from a bin on the side of his little tank.

“EVERYONE CLEAR OF THE ANOMOLY!” He called.

Buffy watched as the last injured woman was carried away by two of Peter’s men. Everyone else took cover behind the armoured cars.

“Here you are, Miss Summers,” Peter handed Buffy the pack.

“What do I do with this?” Buffy asked suspiciously.

“Well,” Peter started to explain as he led Buffy a couple of yards closer to the anomaly, “over the years we’ve discovered that if you disrupt the rift with a big enough bang it’ll close.”

“You what!?” this all sounded like typical military ‘blow everything up-ism’; Buffy was just about to refuse to do anything when Peter stepped forward and gave her no option.

Grabbing hold of a toggle on the outside of the pack he gave it a sharp yank. Almost immediately the pack started to hiss as smoke began to rise from out of the pack.

“Just throw it through the rift Miss Summers,” Peter called as he ran to hide behind his little tank.

“Why you!” Buffy stopped watching Peter, turned and threw the pack into the rift.

“I’d lie down and take cover if I were you,” Peter called from behind his vehicle.

Covering her head with her arms Buffy fell to the grown only moments before a hot, loud explosion swept over her. When she looked up again she saw that the rift was closed and the blue swirly thing was dissipating into the air.

“Oh, well thrown, Miss Summers!” Peter called as he helped her to her feet.

“What the hell was that?” Buffy demanded as she brushed forest from her hair.

“Magically enhanced explosive,” Peter informed her with a grin.

“What!?” Buffy stared at him with disbelieving eyes.

“Yes,” Peter continued looking incredibly smug, “over the years we’ve found it incredible useful. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it.”

“But…” Buffy looked at where the rift and blue swirly thing had been and back at Peter, she couldn’t help feeling that this had been something of an anticlimax.

Why had she been transported through time if the people already there were quite capable of dealing with the situation, it all seemed so pointless to her. Shaking her head in confusion, Buffy walked back towards Peter, she really hoped that Payne would get the tea on soon, she needed something to calm her nerves. Searching in her pockets she found the crumpled pack of cigarettes someone had given her earlier and placed one between her lips, she offered the pack to Peter.

“They say these’ll kill you,” Buffy observed as Peter took the offered cigarette.

“Nonsense,” Peter laughed as he lit Buffy’s fag, “what utter rot!”

“So,” Buffy took a drag on her cigarette and leant against the side of the armoured car, “what happens know?”

“I have to admit that you’ve got me stumped there, Miss Summers,” Peter admitted, “I half expected you to disappear in a puff of smoke as soon as that rift thing was closed.”

“Sorry,” Buffy pocked herself in the chest, “still here.”

“Oh-well,” Peter sighed, “I expect something will turn up,” Peter shot her a smile, “now if you’ll excuse me I better make sure things get tidied up here.”

Watching as Peter organised his men, Buffy started to feel the old familiar crawling sensation in the pit of her stomach that warned of danger. Turning slowly to search the wood line with her eyes, she was just in time to register something big, black and powerful leap through the air from the other side of the armoured car.

0=0=0=0


	10. Chapter 10

10.

The wolfman landed on Peter, knocking him to the ground and started to savage him with its teeth and claws. As befitted the slayer, Buffy was the first to react, three strides brought her up behind the struggling duo, reaching down she took the wolfman by the collar of his uniform and lifted him off Peter. Holding the struggling, growling wolfman by his collar and the seat of his pants, she threw him head first into the side of Peter’s armoured car. 

Bouncing off the armoured side of Peter’s little tank the wolfman landed on all-fours, he snarled at Buffy before springing at her throat. Catching the wolfman in mid-leap, she knocked the vicious, slavering creature to one side. It landed on the ground, rolled and was just about to spring into the attack when Buffy hit it in the muzzle with a side kick that would have crushed its skull had it been a human; the wolfman rolled away from her attack as it yelped in pain but still it wasn’t seriously hurt.

Circling her opponent, Buffy was vaguely aware of men shouting and Peter being pulled to safety by his troopers. Once again the wolfman launched himself at her; this time Buffy managed to catch the creature across the windpipe with the edge of her hand. Yelping in pain the wolfman was knocked to one side in mid-air. Not giving her adversary time to recover, Buffy moved in, took a fist full of uniform in her small hand, dragged the wolfman to its feet only to punch it between the eyes and knock him to the ground again. 

Whining and trying to hold on to its nose with its paw like hands the wolfman found itself pulled to its feet again by his diminutive opponent only to be stuck again and set flying into the front of one of the armoured cars. Realising that he might have bitten off more than he could chew the wolfman tried to make good his escape instead of continuing his attack. Running after the wolfman, Buffy dived for his legs and brought him down with a rugby tackle that even Faith would have been proud of.

Squirming under his adversary the wolfman scrabbled at the ground with his forepaws as he tried to get away. Turning the wolfman onto his back, Buffy sat astride his chest and started to beat his head unmercifully with her fists. How dare this foul, misbegotten, creature attack one of her friends? How dare he threaten the life of a good man who’d cared for her since she’d become the slayer? How dare he hurt Giles! Freezing in mid-punch, Buffy realised what she’d been thinking, she’d mistaken Peter for Giles. When she’d attacked the wolfman it hadn’t been wholly to save Peter it had also been to protect Rupert.

“Oh my god,” Buffy whispered, “I’m in love with Giles!”

Strong arms pulled Buffy from off the whimpering wolfman, as she held on to the two troopers who were pulling her away from the creature, Buffy watched as Sergeant Wotton stepped forward and shot the wolfman twice in the head with his revolver.

0=0=0=0

“How do you feel?” Buffy asked Peter as she sat in a chair next to his bed.

After the fight in the clearing, Second Troop had loaded up its wounded officer and driven off down one of the tracks that led through the forest. After only five minutes or so they’d come to a farm. Dismounting, Sergeant Wotton had quickly evicted the farmer and his family and moved the troop in to the snug farmhouse. Today, second troop were not in a forgiving mood and to be honest neither was Buffy, she thought the Germans should be grateful that Wotton hadn’t shot them out of hand.

His men carried Peter up to the master bedroom where Trooper Osborne treated his wounds. After washing Peter’s the cuts and scratches with a mixture of holy water and disinfectant, Osborne bandaged up the cuts and bites the wolfman had inflicted before announcing that Peter would live.

“Not so bad, Miss Summers,” Peter smiled and lifted his bandaged hands, “feel a little like ‘The Curse of the Mummy’…did you ever see that film?”

“Saw the remake,” Buffy admitted, she paused and took a deep breath before speaking again, “You’re not going to turn into a werewolf, are you? I mean it bit you and everything so you’re probably infected.”

“Not to worry, Miss Summers,” Peter pushed himself up the bed so he could sit up.

“Could you _please_ call me ‘Buffy’,” Buffy pleaded, “just the once or would that break some sort of ‘stiff upper lip’ rule you Brits have?”

“Well, if you feel so strongly about it…Buffy,” Peter smiled, “personally I could never understand this need all American’s seem to have to tell one their entire life story at first meeting.”

“Yeah okay,” Buffy frowned, “but, what about the werewolf thing?”

“Oh,” Peter replied airily, “I hate to disappoint you but that wasn’t a werewolf.”

“It wasn’t?” Buffy scratched the back of her head and realised how dirty her hair had become over the last twenty-four hours; she stopped for fear of what she might find. “It looked like a werewolf to me.”

“No,” Peter shook his head, “that was a ‘wolfman’ a construct of magic and evil science.”

“Wolfman?” Buffy queried, “I’ve totally never heard of them.”

“Well that’s good,” Peter gave a relieved sigh, “that means we must have killed all of them off and destroyed the knowledge that allowed people to be turned into such things.”

“Oh,” Buffy sat in silence for a moment before speaking again, “perhaps that’s why I was sent here…”

“Could well be,” Peter agreed and then added, “but it does seem rather a minor thing for you to be sent back all these years to do.”

“Hmmm,” Buffy nodded, she’d just thought of something and she wondered if she should let Peter in on the secret; after all she could be wrong, what harm could it do? “Erm, Peter,” Buffy began slowly, “I’ve been giving that some thought.”

“Giving what some thought?” Peter appeared to be watching her closely; Buffy couldn’t help but think how much he looked like ‘her’ Giles.

“The whole, why I was sent back thing,” Buffy pointed out.

“You have a theory,” Peter asked eagerly, “come-on lets hear it.”

“My watcher,” Buffy spoke slowly wondering all the time whether something would stop her from saying what she wanted to say, “Did I tell you he was English?”

“No,” Peter shook his head.

“Then I never told you his surname is ‘Giles’,” Buffy paused half expecting the walls of reality to come tumbling down around her, when they didn’t she took courage from the fact and continued speaking. “Then I probably didn’t tell you how similar you and he look.”

“You mean, you think that your watcher is related to me?” Peter asked in astonishment.

“I think he’s your son,” Buffy said quietly, the familial likeness, the same mannerisms the photograph on Giles' wall, all these things couldn’t be denied.

“But I’m not even married,” Peter exclaimed.

“Not now,” Buffy pointed out, “but after the war maybe…I mean Giles has never said very much about his family. He mentioned once about wanting to be a fighter pilot or a greengrocer,” Buffy shrugged, “but other than that he’s never said much about his childhood.”

“Giles?” Peter frowned at Buffy, “You call your watcher Giles?”

“He doesn’t like his first name, I think,” Buffy admitted.

“Oh bloody hell,” Peter stared off across the room deep in thought, “Miss Summers…Buffy,” he began urgently, “you must say no more, you might have said too much already. I’ve already gone from not even thinking about getting married to now thinking about finding the right woman…what if I chose incorrectly and marry the wrong woman by mistake. Did-did your watcher ever say anything about his mother?”

Buffy opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by a cry from Peter.

“NO!” He yelped, “Don’t say anything…this is terrible!” Peter buried his face in his bandaged hands.

“Sorry,” Buffy rested her hand on Peter’s shoulder, “But you know it could be worse.”

“Worse?” Peter looked at Buffy aghast.

“Yeah,” an impish grin spread across Buffy’s face, “what if I can’t go back and have to stay here? What if we fall in love, get married and I have a baby? What if I’m my own watcher’s mother!?”

“AAGH!” Peter screamed.

“Sorry,” despite the seriousness of the situation Buffy couldn’t help but smile at the idea of being Giles’ mom or even mum, “Look,” she stood up slowly, “I think I’ve ruined your life enough for one day, I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

“I wish you would, Miss Summers,” Peter gasped as he pondered the ramifications of what Buffy had suggested.

“See you later,” Buffy called as she headed out the door.

Going back down stairs, Buffy found the kitchen deserted except for Trooper Payne who was, as usual, cooking.

“Where is everyone?” Buffy asked.

“Out in the barn working on the vehicles Miss,” Payne replied, “I don’t suppose you could do me a favour could you?”

“Sure,” Buffy smiled always eager to help out where she could.

“Could you pop over to the barn,” Payne asked, “an’ tell Sergeant Wotton, grub’s up in ten minutes?”

“Grub,” Buffy sketched a salute before heading towards the door, “ten minutes, got it.”

Opening the kitchen door, Buffy stepped outside and vanished.

0=0=0=0

Waking up in the middle of the night with a sense of dread is never a good thing. It’s particularly not a good thing when your name is Rupert Giles and the sense of dread has more to do with actual ‘dreadful’ things than anything your imagination could dream up. Lying in his bed, Giles listened to the noises the house made; he’d lived there long enough to be familiar with all the usual creaking and groaning noises the building made as it cooled down overnight. Tonight, however, there was something different and it took him a moment or two realise what it was. Of course the reason the house felt different was because Buffy was staying there.

Perhaps she’d got up and was moving around down stairs? Maybe she’d heard something and was investigating…maybe she was in a life or death struggle and needed his help? Getting out of bed, he put on his dressing gown and slippers; he quickly headed off down stairs. Moments later he found himself standing in the downstairs hall.

“Buffy?” He called quietly.

Hearing no noise of furniture being broken or cries of alarm, Giles was just reaching for the light switch when he noticed that the light was on in the kitchen. He smiled to himself; that was obviously what had happened; Buffy probably couldn’t sleep and had come down to make herself a drink or something. Walking over to the door he pushed it open and went into the kitchen. Much to his surprise he found the room empty.

Looking around the kitchen he saw the tin of chocolate powder sitting on the work surface next to a mug, however, other than that there was no sign that Buffy had ever been down here. Starting to get worried he was just about to go back upstairs to check on Buffy’s room when he saw the back door open. Just for an instant he got the impression of looking into another room. Next his view was obscured by a short figure dressed in what appeared to be an old fashioned British army uniform that was at least four sizes too big for him…or her.

“Buffy?” Giles looked across the room at the dirty faced figure that looked at him in a mixture of surprise and relief. “Buffy,” he repeated, “is that you?”

It had to be Buffy; Giles knew she’d picked up some strange habits while she’d been in prison, but he was fairly sure that wearing old army uniforms to bed wasn’t one of them. His keen council trained watcher’s mind cut to the heart of the situation, there was something decidedly odd going on here.

“Giles?” Buffy took a step towards her friend and cried out with relief as she rushed towards him and wrapped her arms around his torso and sobbed, “Oh god, Giles it was awful!”

“What was awful?” Giles patted Buffy on her back and lead her over to one of the kitchen chairs.

This close to her he could smell the scents that clung to her clothes; tobacco, oil, cordite, blood all mixed with the natural earthy smells of wood, earth and sweat. But underlying all those aromas was a smell that hung just in the background, it waited on the edge of consciousness like a wild animal waiting to spring an ambush on the unwary. He could smell death on her hair, her clothes her skin. It covered her like some noisome cloak, hiding her natural scents that he’d grown so used to after all these years.

“My god, Buffy,” forgetting himself for the moment Giles returned her desperate embrace, “What happened to you?”

0=0=0=0

“Filthy habit,” Buffy said as she lit another cigarette, “I’ll have to give it up.”

“How long did you say you were there?” Giles sat across the kitchen table from Buffy and picked up the crumpled packet of cigarettes, they looked genuine enough for what they purported to be.

“About two days,” Buffy drew on her fag and blew smoke up towards the ceiling.

“Then it must have been bad,” Giles admitted, “to get you smoking.”

“Like I say,” Buffy tapped some ash into a saucer that was doing duty as an ashtray, “I’ll give it up. Hey,” she smiled, “I gave up the drink didn’t I? I mean there must be a Tobacco Anonymous, I can fit in the meetings between my AA meetings and patrolling!”

Trying to smile, Buffy felt the tears role down her checks as she remembered all she’d seen.

“I-I never realised, Giles,” Buffy sniffed and wiped the tears from her face leaving dirty smears in their place, “I thought I could handle it…but the smell and all those eyes looking at me…there was no hope there…none. There was nothing we could do to help…”

Getting up Giles moved around the table and sat down next to his slayer, he placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close until her head was resting against his shoulder.

“I know this probably won’t mean anything to you now,” Giles explained quietly, “but in whatever small a way you did help. You brought a modicum of happiness to those poor souls in their last moments, it showed them their suffering was over and the world still cared.” Giles held on to Buffy tightly as sobs shock her body, “You know the army dealt surprisingly well with it when they found the camps, they and you must have saved thousands.” Wondering whether Buffy would have time in her busy schedule of self help meetings to add treatment for PTSD, Giles added, “And of course you saved the world…again.”

“Yeah,” Buffy sniffed, disentangling herself from Giles, but still holding his hand in her own, she sat up and stubbed out the remains of her forgotten cigarette. “as usual.” Sniffing again she seemed to catch a whiff her own odour for the first time. “Eww Giles!” Buffy stood up and stepped away from him in embarrassment, “I’m sorry I must stink!”

“Can’t say as I noticed,” Giles lied.

“I must have a shower and get at least a little sleep.” Buffy started to move towards the door.

Yawning Giles glanced at the kitchen clock; it was half-past-two. If what Buffy had said was true, she’d been gone for maybe a minute possibly two, they’d been sitting here in the kitchen for nearly an hour and a half.

“Good idea,” Giles got up and followed her out into the hall and up the stairs, “we’ll talk about this in the morning…well,” he corrected himself, “later in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Buffy glanced back at him as she headed up the stairs, “and you can tell me all about your dad.”

THE END.


End file.
